There is a herd of buffalo I pass by every day,
They flit and fly within a park I drive through on my way
To work, I go each morning and return home every night
At work it seems that often nothing goes just right
But work, we must, for rent and food and power must be paid,
Without which life would really not be grand, we're afraid.
The early morning brake light glow is really not that cute,
At times it feels like we're the ones who ramble through the chute.
The buffalo live free and clear without a bank or bill,
Their days consist of to and fro and relative free will.
All day they watch us passing by from deep within their pen,
I wonder who is luckiest, the buffalo, or men.