The cows won’t milk no more. The grass is good, the cows are fat and the dams are full, but the cows just won’t milk.
The vet can’t nut it out. The scientists said there ain’t nothing wrong with the dirt. Even the guy with the tin-hat reckons it weren’t aliens this time. Ain’t no rhyme or reason for it. Only solution would be to turn ’em into dog chow.
The meat trucks rolled up; the big greasy trucks that breathe out fire and fumes. The chains clinked and clanked on the trailers and the cattle heard the racket. They about-faced and headed for the mikin’ sheds. Farmers, truck drivers and townspeople all stood watchin’ with their gobs open as them cows lined up for milkin’.
We all piled in and filled the vats. The drought was broke. The milk was flowin’ again, but I couldn’t figure out what done it.
I’m pooped! Normally by this time of day the old school bell’s a ringin’ and I’m stopping for a smoko. Ever since them city folk stuck the old bell in a museum “for preservation” everyone’s been skipping their tea. The kids are rocking up to school late, the husbands are rocking up to dinner late, and even the postman’s late.
And thinkin’ of that, the cows ain’t been milkin’ lately. I wonder if that’s got nothin’ to do with that old school bell? I’ll mention it to the mayor next time I’m down the pub.