Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: ENVY (jealousy of another’s advantage) (02/12/15)
TITLE: Rosie is Red, Grass is Green
By Ann Grover
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Each day, the farmer milks me, a rich and frothy stream.
I always do my utmost to give the best and most.
(I say this, oh, so humbly, for I never like to boast.)
When at my paddock gate I stand, my troubled eyes observe,
A perplexing situation, and itâ€™s ruffling up my nerves.
For Rosie the Red Angus grazes oâ€™er the way.
Munching through the pasture, a grassy green buffet.
(Each day, I get a bucketful of dry and dusty oats.)
Then she basks in sunbeams shining on her glossy coat,
She gives no milk; she has no calf; no tricks does she bestow.
She simply eats and chews her cud from dawn to eveningâ€™s glow.
Itâ€™s making me cantankerous, watching her devour
Alfalfa blooms and juicy leaves; sheâ€™s turning my milk sour.
Sheâ€™s bold and saucy with the bull, just in a field over.
Flirting with him shamelessly, as she wades through hock-high clover.
For all my ruminations, I canâ€™t see why she is favoured,
Why she runs the breadth and width of over twenty acres,
While I remain imprisoned in an itty-bitty stall.
With barely room to turn around, itâ€™s enough to make me bawl.
Twice a day, the farmer comes and fondles me with squeezes,
But Rosieâ€™s left in solitude, to do just as she pleases.
I wish for once that I could dance among the greenery,
Sip water from a bubbling brook, a pleasant change of scenery.
The wind a-strumming through my horns a charming little tune,
Iâ€™d lay each night beneath the gleam of a silvery moon.
Lounge in waving grass each day and calmly chew my cud,
Midst blissful breezes perfumed with the scent of buttercups.
Itâ€™s upsetting my four stomachs, and I keep myself aloof,
Despising every glimpse of her, Her Highness-on-the-Hoof.
(Between us and the fence post, sheâ€™s getting rather plump.
A thickening of her brisket and extending to her rump.)
Iâ€™m bothered and Iâ€™m flustered. Itâ€™s unfair, to be precise.
I hope that sheâ€™s infested with ticks and flies and lice.
One day they came and took her in a trailer long and fine;
The last I saw of Rosie was her swaying broad behind.
Iâ€™m eyeing up that meadow now. Am I such a dreamer,
To fancy plusher pastures where the grass is always greener?
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