The purpose of life

Cows chewing the cud are part of our image of the peaceful English countryside. But it gives them plenty of time to think . . .

I’m a cow, and I’m bored with just chewing the cud
Which goes right through my system and drops with a thud.
There is nothing to do
But to chew, poo and moo,
And paddle about in a field full of mud.

The flies are a nuisance. Whenever I spot ’em,
I wind up my tail – then release it to swot ’em.
But it can’t reach my face:
It’s the most awkward place,
And it’s usually the place where I’ve bloomin’ well got ’em.

The bull seemed to like me: it wasn’t for long,
Then he found someone else; he’s very headstrong.
I get milked by a pipe
I’m so sorry to gripe,
But my calves should be here to have had it. It’s wrong.

What’s the purpose of life? I keep asking the question.
I can’t find an answer, but here’s a suggestion:
I might be naïve,
But I’d like to believe
That it’s more than just bovine microbial digestion.

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