The Cow Poem

I like this fine ole bookman old.
It makes me feel so warm not cold.

Since I will write this story now.
I’ll hope that you wont have a cow.

I’ll write no weeping parts for now.
So you wont have to get a towel.

This story is about a poem.
One that just would not go home.

This poem has started with a font.
Called bookman old, it’s what I want.

I find it easy to be seen.
On this passive matrix screen.

If hard to read is what I want.
I’ll pick Vivaldi for a font.

I did not know just what to write.
I didn’t want to sound contrite.

But rhyming words I do for me.
Lying in bed, and drinking tea.

The tea I am not drinking now.
I’d rather wish I had the cow.

The cow if she were newly hired.
I’d drink some milk to make me tired.

I’d rather soon go off to bed.
But then my poem you would not dread.

If I stop right here and now.
The cow will never find out how.

This newly hired cow wont see.
How she gives me milk for free.

May this poem buy my milk for free