Deep down the country, there is a village,
Where oxen of variety are bred at large,
It’s been a custom for farmers in the world,
To visit the village picking oxen around.
Testing their strength, oxen are picked up,
Little they can guess, where they end up,
But they’ve liberty, to select their owner,
So farmers show off their beauty & glamour.
A farmer is known by his name & fame,
Oxen at this farmer take up an aim,
It’s sure they can not peep-in and see,
They hold his hands, beaming in glee.
There it stands, the farm of honour,
Oxen are yoked to plough at order,
Days, weeks and months will pass,
Oxen will plough and graze the grass.
Then comes for oxen a time of reward,
Farmer reaps because they work hard,
With gleaming eyes, oxen will wait,
Only to see their reward isn’t right.
Oxen will group up with fellows alike,
To face the farmer with request & strike,
For quite a long they hue and cry,
One day they stop, their mouths are dry.
It’s not, who’s right & who’s wrong,
Oxen will survive only if they’re strong.
There’s no point in hue and cry,
When they haven’t got wings to fly ! ! !
~Author Unknown
Isn’t IT?
IT Is !
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