Moo

I’m the moo-cow, of the field
Moo, say I, untethered by the troths of man
Would you look at how I walk—
All at once, if god is watching—
Horns toward him, as if I’m stalking
A haired centipede that I am,
I never need no pants,
and I’m not too fond of hungry ants
Hiding, biting, in the grass –
The overbearing saint
My dirty tail is no match for the
Insects’ religious restraint
To whose timetable I belong?
And what kind of question is this song?
Let us better look again at this, my
Undecipherable four-legged nipple
An organism of its own
Can I move it? I don’t know
There’s a lot of grass to mow
Instead of waiting for the human tow
Of my glossy body that has won
Town Contest twice in a row
Or was it just a scale?
Why then did it not turn my skin fright pale?