Saying a Prayer for Mrs O’Leary’s Cow

Saying a prayer might not be necessary

but you never really know

Because there have been so many rumours

and thousands of people have up and died

But it may all come down to criminal culpability

however there is no reason to believe

that there was ever any real intent

Besides, can you imagine what it would be like

to have someone always yanking on your wornout udders?

I can only imagine that on some days

it undoubtedly became very old

So is it not so hard to imagine

that cold hands could have brought on that fateful “moo”

that led to that consequential kick?

And as the lamp turned over

and Catherine O’Leary continued to ply her famous trade

the brittle hay caught on fire

and caused so much damage down Chicago way

So you can blame it on the beer

or attribute it to a moody buffalo

but let’s just say that it was an innocent affair

You can chalk it up to Murphy’s Law

or some other Irish lore

But my mother said it’s just a song for children

It is just a new way to cherish the father and the son

It is the eye of heaven

A large phallus in the sky

And as we can look upon the horrid tragedy with unparalleled regret

let’s look on and direct our eyes to Plymouth Rock

It is where the Puritans came and where the idols and villains

thought of a beautiful blue cove in Hawaii

It is not far from the surf

or where the American Indians fought

So when we reminisce it is the deepest place to go

Where the harmonies knock me out

It is said that the righteous brothers once lived there

not far from a chapel that had been made for love

But I must let in that I have begun to regress

So may I ask, are you nevertheless sleeping my brother John?

Because I have almost left my spirit

as my sadness sometimes dims

I realize that death is unavoidable

And no matter how tragic it may be

I will hear it in the voice

and the beautiful melodies that will trip across my mind

The groups caress my conscience

and allow me to dismiss anything

that will cause me any pain

however it is the beauty of the world that turns me on

And I know that it will break my heart

when I must close my eyes

and my imagination will someday cease to exist

So whether it burned in Chicago or lit up in some foreign

midwestern sky

I will take myself back to the barn

and remember that it all turned out right