S.B. Redux

A herd of minotaurs comes trouncing into the city,
moving slow but steady, with human grace and bovine girth,
grabbing the citizenry, charging at bums,
heads lowered, nostrils flaring,
horns ripping homeless flesh from homeless bone.
They ransacked a local Albertson's,
collecting every milk product they could find:
cheeses, yogurts, even the dehydated stuff,
making low furious noises,
mixtures of moos and wails of anguish.
They just stomped all of the goat
and sheep's cheeses on the linoleum,
grunting angrily.
Eventually they headed east,
grazing their way
over the mountains to Tillamook,
where they took to standing at the gates of pastures,
whistling obscenely at the cows,
a dangerous look of sex lingering in their eyes.
But their cow-calls were all for naught,
the unknowing women just absently chewed on grass, and stank mightily.
In a few days, the minotaurs, angry and unsated,
invaded the factory, and confiscated
every last beefstick and bag of squeaky-cheese,
and smashed up all of the expensive machinery,
and became bloated and fat and sad from all
of the ice cream they inhaled.
They were especially disappointed by one called "Brown Cow."
Finally, sighing with great man-beast malaise,
they abandoned their womenfolk's breastmilk,
each chopped off their left horn
and disappeared into the hills,
like great, sexually mistaken Amazons.