The Sheep

It was late in peak September, on some day I can’t remember
Whilst I typed of peace and splendour on some spreadsheet, version four
And the noontime birds still tweeting, and my thoughts were ever fleeting
And a knock, knock, knock repeating found itself upon my door
I inquired with elation I had never felt before -
“Who is knocking at my door?”

Who could it be? Some gruesome sprite? Sent here to torment in the night?
To move my pen and make me write, to leave me sprawling on the floor?
Would it be some pallid raptor whose mere stare could write a chapter…?
Or vengeful hearts’ tapper-tapper, beating beneath the wooden floor?
I had to know who was behind! Who was outside of my front door?-
What did cruel fate have in store?

There as I opened up the door, nearly ripping off the hinges
There I stood upon the fringes of the world I knew before
How could my hopeful action cause such deep dissatisfaction?
There a greyish sheep in traction bleated just outside my front door
Such a stupid sight had never been witnessed in days of yore
Cripple sheep and nothing more

It’s poor legs were cast in plaster, it had suffered great disaster
And he stood there ever bleating with the stale bandages it wore
It could barely have dared to bleat upon his broken plastered feet
And it spoke out with words complete as if Athena did implore
But it was not Pallas who spoke as she tends to be a bore
Talking sheep and nothing more

And I stood there disillusioned by the lame sheep upon my floor
As if asking me to heal him, as if begging me to restore
I wondered why this muse of mine would rob me of my word and rhyme
Other poets are blessed while I’m frequented by sheep at my door
The thing that spoke now was bleeding more than it had done before
Bleeding sheep and nothing more

Such greatness came to sulky Poe in his own vocal blackened crow
That did sit atop a statue squawking of his long dead Lenore
Vincent’s dog, his Abercrombie, who he turned into a zombie
As penned by the great Tim Burton, the king of bold and darkest lore
But what do I get on this day, bleeding on my wooden floor
Stupid sheep and nothing more

So it spoke out in words so bleak, than should some poor and broken sheep
And it bleated out a pale bleat, on his poor plaster coated feet
And it breathed which seemed quite the feat as it did limber up to speak
And it spoke such dreadful words that I had never heard before
Was I to be a great poet as the ones who came before?
Spake the sheep then, “Nevermore.”

Outright I failed to believe it: the talking livestock’s parable
That brought my troubled soul as low as the grey dust upon my floor
So I shot it and chopped it up. For fear that all will know the truth.
Of what the talking livestock said upon the wet and bloody floor
So I had mutton steak for lunch on that sunny day of yore
And the sheep spoke nevermore.

-o0o-