Lately I have grazed on the lovely fields of dark brown slime,
Frankly I’m afraid of the strain E-coli.
Lately I have grazed at the rate of a lot of overtime,
confined to a line,
Frankly I’m afraid of the farmer’s shiny glass eye.

Chorus 1:
Braising in a pan, maybe in a Foreman pan,
I’m in the middle of some tin,
Like a steak from East Afghanistan.
Braising with a calf, maybe one that’s cut in half,
Future veal picante,
Maybe won’t you help me get off this land.

Solo

Chorus 2:
Simmering in stew, maybe lookin’ up at you
I’m in the middle of a crock pot
Can’t you hear my once loud fading moo?
Craving Steak Diane, maybe it’s the only recipe
that could ever cook me,
Wish I’d been a chimp in some old zoo.

Maybe I’m farm-raised in a cold and lonely darkened room,
Maybe I’ll be dead by the time they feed you.
Maybe I’m farm-raised by the type of branding on my butt.
Primed for Pizza Hut,
Maybe I’m farm-raised by the way they burn my tattoo.

(chorus no words)

Solo

Fade out