What the Old Cow Said
SAD old cow to herself once said,
While the north wind whistled through her shed:
“To head a drum they will take my skin,
And they’ll file my bones for a big hair-pin,
The scraps of bone they will make into dice,
And sell them off at a very low price;
My sinews they’ll make into whips, I wot,
And my flesh they’ll put in a big soup pot.”