Hand it to the Heifer

A line of verse abruptly stops,

The author rubs his brow,

A word to rhyme with “solemnize”,

He hears a lowing cow.

"Moo," she moaned from pasture green,

Her head o'er barb-ed wire.

The author pushes to his feet,

And grabs his strumming lyre.

A song bursts forth, and cheers the man,

Accompanying bovine.

In key of "G" the "moos" and plucks,

Imbue an addled mind.

Then over hill a farmer raced,

A gleaming sword in hand.

He waved it wildly o'er his head,

"Hey, get off my land!"

The author shocked by mad display,

He backed away in fright.

"I'm sorry sir," the author said.

"Your cow's inspired tonight."

"My cow's inspired?" the farmer scoffed.

"She's fam'ly, good for milk,

You've come to steal my pri-zed Bess,

I'm familiar with your ilk."

"No, Sir, no, come to my house,"

The author begged, he pleaded.

"See my prose and see the place,

Where a word is needed."

The farmer followed to the house,

His sword clinched at his side.

The author rushed in through the door,

The farmer stomped inside.

The writer settled at his desk,

And began to write in cursive.

"Homogenize" the writer penned,

With a stylish flourish.

The farmer sheathed his weaponry,

Then chuckled 'til he roared.

The adage true, proved by a moo,

"The pen is mightier than the sword."