‘Til the cows come home by Cameron Taylor

The only thing he could hear

was his own slobber

Sliding into the barn

where his tongue

Would get hopelessly lost

in the piles of hay.

Snubbed all the flickering

signs of caution,

littered with graphic warnings

about the rare breed

That did the riding,

refusing to be mounted.

Her four stomachs 

desperately needed to be filled,

Gnawing at the long grass on his body

for nourishment.

All up in her beefy guts,

his fingers wrapped around her udders

As she crushed him with all her weight,

letting the cream and milk release.

Moos and moans

melting and merging,

He vowed to fondle her rump

’til the cows come home.

Poem and photography: Cameron Taylor

Follow Cameron on Instagram @caameron_taaylor