There’s somethin’ about this gypsy cow. She’s a world-class travelin’ machine.
She must have more frequent flyer miles than the crew on Apollo 13.
She’s seen more country than Lewis and Clark,
more dogs than the Moorman’s feed man.
She showed up one time with a trucker and a sale barn tag from Japan.
Neighbors, sheriffs and folks I don’t know call me up
when she’s makin’ her rounds.
They find my name in the state brand book and right quick see
that she’s outta bounds.
She’s got a few scars from the fences that she’s plowed down
and broke to get through.
There’s a headlight mark on her shoulder plus a few ropin’ burns on her, too!
She’d had her close calls, that I’m sure of.
More than once she’s escaped certain death.
One night she came home
in a loader with a Gomer
and schnapps on her breath.
Last fall she was out on the highway
and had flagged down a snowbird’s RV
And I swear this New Year’s I saw her in the Rose Bowl parade on TV.
She’s worse than a tomcat ’bout roamin’ and not picky, is what I’ve surmised.
I never know what kind of a calf she’ll have.
Each time I’m always surprised.
One year she whelped her a Holstein pup. She’s had Angus, Salers and Wygus,
but I’m worried this spring ’cause the man next door has started raisin’ emus.
I’ve really no call to condemn her though she looks like the hind wheels of hell.
So preg check ’er, Doc, just for practice, she’s earned it ... and you never can tell,”
I put on a sleeve and proceeded.
“This is strange,” I said, when I could speak.
“I’d advise you get a nest ready;
I feel feathers, two horns
and a beak!” 
