Stella's Sea Cow
Posted: Sun Aug 14, 2011 10:41 pm
Stella's Sea Cow
© Stephen Whiteside 14.08.2011
Now, Stella had a sea cow, and it paddled in the bay.
It was pretty much a normal cow in ev'ry other way.
It slowly munched on giant kelp instead of fields of grass.
She watched it from a cliff-top with a magnifying glass.
She wore long rubber boots of black (that's Stella, not the cow).
Her limbs were thick and hairy and she had a heavy brow.
People said her cow and her were really quite alike.
She paddled to the beach each day upon a rusty bike.
Just before the dawn she'd come. She'd give her cow a whistle,
Then wait above the tide-line near the ti-tree and the thistle.
The cow would slowly lumber from the shallows up the beach.
It must have been affection. That's a thing you cannot teach.
They said her milk was slightly salt (the cow, I mean, not Stella).
The pigment from the giant kelp would make it rather yeller.
She'd milk it there and then within a hollow in the dunes,
Gaily humming any of a hundred tuneless tunes.
She'd sit upon a little stool (that's Stella, not the cow),
Then take the milk to market. (I'm not sure exactly how.)
The cow would slowly amble to the ocean's edge once more,
Then wade out through the shallows, and then paddle from the shore.
She didn't have a partner (that's the cow, I mean, not Stella).
Stella, quite surprisingly, in fact, did have a fella.
His limbs were thin and hairless. On his forehead stood a curl,
And when you saw him first you might mistake him for a girl,
But Stella's cow was lonely, for she never had a mate.
The species was endangered and this sealed, of course, its fate.
The animal was older than you might perhaps have thinked,
And then it died. Now Stella's sea cow is, alas, extinct.
© Stephen Whiteside 14.08.2011
Now, Stella had a sea cow, and it paddled in the bay.
It was pretty much a normal cow in ev'ry other way.
It slowly munched on giant kelp instead of fields of grass.
She watched it from a cliff-top with a magnifying glass.
She wore long rubber boots of black (that's Stella, not the cow).
Her limbs were thick and hairy and she had a heavy brow.
People said her cow and her were really quite alike.
She paddled to the beach each day upon a rusty bike.
Just before the dawn she'd come. She'd give her cow a whistle,
Then wait above the tide-line near the ti-tree and the thistle.
The cow would slowly lumber from the shallows up the beach.
It must have been affection. That's a thing you cannot teach.
They said her milk was slightly salt (the cow, I mean, not Stella).
The pigment from the giant kelp would make it rather yeller.
She'd milk it there and then within a hollow in the dunes,
Gaily humming any of a hundred tuneless tunes.
She'd sit upon a little stool (that's Stella, not the cow),
Then take the milk to market. (I'm not sure exactly how.)
The cow would slowly amble to the ocean's edge once more,
Then wade out through the shallows, and then paddle from the shore.
She didn't have a partner (that's the cow, I mean, not Stella).
Stella, quite surprisingly, in fact, did have a fella.
His limbs were thin and hairless. On his forehead stood a curl,
And when you saw him first you might mistake him for a girl,
But Stella's cow was lonely, for she never had a mate.
The species was endangered and this sealed, of course, its fate.
The animal was older than you might perhaps have thinked,
And then it died. Now Stella's sea cow is, alas, extinct.
