Pastures of greenbacks and overtime;
the grass is a little greener on this side.
Forty hours in four nights, have I lost my mind?
No, impossible. I do this for pride.
Pride I’ll never be proud of; just the merits of money.
I’ve no say when my udders are touched.
So long as magic still comes out, chunky or not,
I won’t be become a burger of burden, just a beast with a crutch.
Hobbling on nothing, but faith and froth;
drunk some nights, swinging at ghosts on most.
The belligerent bovine, hear me moo!
Some days I wish to be a T-bone
Other days, a rib-eye too.
Even when my udders run dry, I don’t go home.
Wishing I could produce in this factory of clones.
After poking and prodding plus some threats of a brand,
I eventually hoof it home, wait. These are hands!
This udder is a fanny pack, man what have I been smoking.
When my dealer said “This is that good shit” he sure wasn’t joking.