“Doesn’t worry me...”
And the grey beast remains standing beside the cart, thinking its oxen thoughts, until someone starts up again:
“How much for these sookies?”
“Three hundred!”
And so on, and so forth...
Maybe the grey beast will go home, maybe it’ll go to another farm, or to another village… Or maybe it’ll end up with that ‘gentleman’ with the long thin flail, wearing a jacket and a golden ring on his finger – and then the grey beast will become Beef Stroganoff at the Tivoli. The grey fellow stands there and ruminates.
And there are cows everywhere… Those cows that ‘flood you with milk’...
“How much for this jerry…”
(The jerry is grey, her udder a leathery pouch smeared with dung.)
“Sixty!”
“Get real!”
“Up yours!”
Brief, but decisive… They haven’t reached an agreement.
.
