As they flock along to yonder barn where they long
For chow cuds, utterly muddy throng.
Still they aren't for long (they stink of a cowpie pong);
Together, they bawl for what makes dung.

I'm a-forkin' what ain't grain;
Sheaves I'm haulin' and I feel the pain
In my back--it's killin' me--
Extension's misery.
And I shudder
I shu-shu-shu-shu-shudder,
"Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai!
She-it!" I bray
F**cking udders force me to dray
Their vittles: ton o' hay,
Ton, ton, ton ton ton o' hay.

(cow-corral chorale)

I exhort them, with disdain:
"Leave off bawlin'; it gives my ears pain!
Fixin' your culinary
'daily bread's killin' me!"
I think, murder:
Moo-moo-moo-moo murder.
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!
I'd love to slay
Uddered cudders each cruddy day
I pitch a ton o' hay,
Ton, ton, ton ton ton o' hay.