Cows, hens, sheep and pigs

The cows in the field
Say, "Moo" and yield
Their milk for the farmer to sell.
Some is made into cheese
And, for all to please, butter and yoghurt as well.

The hens in the yard
Work very hard  -
Lay eggs for the farmer to sell.
Boiled, poached, fried,
If you really tried,
You could whip up an omelette as well.

The sheep in the field
Say, "Baa" and yield
Their wool for the farmer to sell.
It's used for knitting
And, it's only fitting,
Some is turned into suits as well.

The pigs in the sty
Say "Oink" and cry,
"It's US that the farmer will sell.
Pork, ham, bacon:
If we're not mistaken,
We'll be made into sausage as well!"

Natural childbirth

Being pregnant was really uplifting,
All rounded and smug "Mother Earth",
With my thoughts sort of dreamily drifting,
To the wonderful climax of birth.

When things started, I'd happily potter,
Each twinge braved with scarcely a quiver.
Once the pace speeded up and got hotter,
I'd prepare then to stand and deliver.

Well "stand"? Second thoughts maybe not.
There were plentiful options to ponder.
I could lie. I could kneel, I could squat.
I could simply continue to wander.

I could sit in a water-filled pool,
As the sun set and day became dusk.
Wafted scents in the air would be cool -
Maybe lavender, jasmine or musk.

I could crawl round upon hands and knees,
In the background, a tape of whales singing.
I could hang on a circus trapeze,
Alternately pushing and swinging.

As night deepened, a few candles glowing.
My partner there, equally stoic.
The pride in his face clearly showing,
As I coped - all serene and heroic.

But it's time now. As push comes to shove,
It hurts badly. I'm feeling quite sick.
And my wonderful "labour of love"
Has become, "Get it over with quick!"

Did I once think this one of life's pleasures?
All that beauteous stuff is for mugs.
What I want now (and not in half measures)
Are some extra-strong painkilling drugs.

All that planning no longer finds favour,
Though it probably works out for some
Who can find it a process to savour.
But not this particular mum!

Unwell

From somewhere I've caught a tenacious type bug.
My energy levels are those of a slug.

My nose may be blocked - or else, it's free-flowing.
Soggy tissues abound in a mountain that's growing.

My joints seem to ache. Can't get comfy at night.
Yet sometimes I rally and feel almost right.

Could I be on the mend? No: deceptive such gaps,
As it isn't that long till I once more relapse.

The virus regroups and attacks once again.
Of sneezing and snuffling am forced to complain.

I frequent local chemists' (a cure is the mission),
Hitting each one in turn to avoid their suspicion.

(Though the claims of the tablets are often pure fiction,
Am fearful they'll think I've acquired an addiction.)

Other people, it seems, have been equally "off"
With a headache, a fever, a cold or a cough.

These germs can mutate, so to none we're immune.
If you're languishing too, hope you feel better soon!