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.