Her milk poured out of a metal spout,
Flowing the same way soda comes out.
With no mooing sound or swishing tail,
Machines hath replaced the metal pail.
In cities and towns, food is ample,
With different colors and tastes of milk to sample.
It’s easy to forget where it all comes from
And where the cartons go when the day is done.
So let me tell you of this one dear farm,
And its loving farmer with timeless charm.
Most farms these days stuff cows in stalls,
Confined indoors by windowless walls.
But not this farmer, no siree,
He lets his cows roam outside, free.
He gives each cow a name, an identity,
Designed his farm to keep the cows happy.
Despite the number, he names all his sows.
John Jansen the farmer, loves his cows.