Andrew Potion, Britain's Poet Laureate, offers an Ode to the Mad Cow Reign at the request of Her Majesty.

I am Andrew Potion, the new poet laureate of Britain. I am well-aware that
some people have made light of my appointment. I am called lightweight
because I write light verse. I have been called sentimental because my poems
weep. 

I would like to put these concerns to rest. Her Majesty has asked me to
write a poem celebrating Mad Cow Disease, which I offer for your
consideration:


                                                                         Mad
Cow Ode


The meadow mare
Drooping head
No summer fare
The cow is dead

Old farmer Brown
His tilling done
Wears anxious frown
It's the mad cow run.

Brown's patient wife
Knows the world is odd
Give me the strife
Save the mad cow god.

Those who think
This is wobbly meat
Have left the sink
For the mad cow beat.

For the cow is shrine
A British first
It walks the line
To fill our thirst.

This is my body
Cow says in death
A slaughterhouse toddy
At the final breath.

When you eat
My finest cut
Think of the meat
That rolls off my butt.

For mad cow gives
To the very last steak
So we can live
For mad cow's sake.