Once—in the county of Marin,
  Where milk is sold to purchase gin—
  Renowned for butter and renowned
  For fourteen ounces to the pound—
  A bull stood watching every turn
  Of Mr. Wilson with a churn,
  As that deigning worthy stalked
  About him, eying as he walked,
  El Toro's sleek and silken hide,
  His neck, his flank and all beside;
  Thinking with secret joy: "I'll spread
  That mammal on a slice of bread!"

  Soon Mr. Wilson's keen concern
  To get the creature in his churn
  Unhorsed his caution—made him blind
  To the fell vigor of bullkind,
  Till, filled with valor to the teeth,
  He drew his dasher from its sheath
  And bravely brandished it; the while
  He smiled a dark, portentous smile;
  A deep, sepulchral smile; a wide
  And open smile, which, at his side,
  The churn to copy vainly tried;
  A smile so like the dawn of doom
  That all the field was palled in gloom,
  And all the trees within a mile,
  As tribute to that awful smile,
  Made haste, with loyalty discreet,
  To fling their shadows at his feet.
  Then rose his battle-cry: "I'll spread
  That mammal on a slice of bread!"

  To such a night the day had turned
  That Taurus dimly was discerned.
  He wore so meek and grave an air
  It seemed as if, engaged in prayer
  This thunderbolt incarnate had
  No thought of anything that's bad:
  This concentrated earthquake stood
  And gave his mind to being good.
  Lightly and low he drew his breath—
  This magazine of sudden death!
  All this the thrifty Wilson's glance
  Took in, and, crying, "Now's my chance!"
  Upon the bull he sprang amain
  To put him in his churn. Again
  Rang out his battle-yell: "I'll spread
  That mammal on a slice of bread!"

  Sing, Muse, that battle-royal—sing
  The deeds that made the region ring,
  The blows, the bellowing, the cries,
  The dust that darkened all the skies,
  The thunders of the contest, all—
  Nay, none of these things did befall.
  A yell there was—a rush—no more:
  El Toro, tranquil as before,
  Still stood there basking in the sun,
  Nor of his legs had shifted one—
  Stood there and conjured up his cud
  And meekly munched it. Scenes of blood
  Had little charm for him. His head
  He merely nodded as he said:
  "I've spread that butterman upon
  A slice of Southern Oregon."