Mad Cow looks in the mirror And sees the hint of a killer Not muscle but mouth Tracking true south Fist bumps a Twitter filler.
Mad Cow steps on pure reason Equating dissent with treason He kills syntax in stride A gift for his tribe A bribe for every new season.	Mad Cow looks out on his herd Tells them a bush is a bird That rivers don’t flow And the wind does not blow And they should avoid the absurd.
Mad Cow sees no forest or trees Only twigs and composting leaves His ground level view Make them duck, let them stew Fist on piano keys.	Mad Cow’s all sixes and sevens He’s been given the keys to heaven The herd kisses his ring And brings him the bling The bread he creates, unleavened.