Once while I was out, and the door blew open, a young heifer came in and used the computer. I could tell by the hoof prints on the floor and the dirt on the keyboard. She made kind of a mess, but left this little poem on the screen. I had to correct some of the spelling and typos — I guess it is not easy to type with hooves.
I am a different kind of cow.
From where I came I'm not sure how.
A train or truck, I don't know, maybe,
I think I've been here since I was a baby.
They say I'm different because I don't go
With some of the others, to where I don't know.
I hear it is called a feedlot, that doesn't sound so bad.
What happens there I'm not sure,
but I don't go… and I'm not mad.
I hear it is a place where they gather in great bunches,
Eat grain and crap and stuff that crunches.
Sometimes newspaper, sawdust, corn and milo.
Doesn't sound so good… probably from G…M…O…
I hear they get shots of poisons like steroid,
Insecticides, antibiotics, and they all get paranoid.
They get sick, and argue and have no grass.
They fight and push and ram each other's ass.
No trees, no shade, no calves to care for.
A strange place to be with no rhyme or wherefore.
If I understood all this stuff,
I think I would panic,
But I don't have to,
’cause I eat grass and I'm organic.
Every animal on our farm lives the way this poem describes — on open pasture, eating the grasses they evolved to eat, never in a feedlot. It's a lighthearted poem, but the point behind it is one we take seriously.