Hostage of Dolour

Militant Bloody Bovines

“Sore udders, June?” Ermintrude asked.  “Slavery.  I’ll get the RSPCA.”

“You’ll have a gutful of steroids before the inspectors show.

Dirty John Famer’ll have you looking fat, healthy and radiant,

as though never a cruel fist was laid upon you.”

“What instead, Ermintrude?” “Instead, June, we strike.  Produce no milk!”

Beyond the milking room, John Farmer clenched, “Militant bloody bovines.

Make a fool of me?  They’ll starve.  Then we’ll see!”

For days he deprived them; severed the phone lines too.

Nighttime.  June, Ermintrude and the herd slunk into the croft.

Air, thick with murder yielded bovine feasting.  RSPCA?  No need.