Ficlets

We arrived for the funeral promptly at ten
Me, the bovine, and my farmer friend
The village was here, from gawker to baker
To say farewell to the bovine catapult maker

His widow cried boo, hoo, hoo
His infant son said a goo, goo, goo
His friends said silly foo, foo, foo,
the bovine said moo, moo, moo

All agreed he was good with his hands
He started small-simple rubber bands
He got ambitious, it wasn’t his fault
The next thing we knew, he had a catapult

He was so smart, we scratched our heads
Why he didn’t forsee, he would end up dead
As he climbed into the catapult, so will go the yarn
Couldn’t he see? He was aimed right at the barn.