THE SHEEP CITY




Friend, have you heard
Of that city of sheep,
Whose bloated shepherds
Walk not on two legs?


Listen, friend, listen.
I'll tell you of abominations
That these eyes of mine
Did there behold.

There, are the sheep shorn,
In the season of snow,
To weave woolen garbs
For the cloaked shepherd!

Their teats are squeezed
That the Shepherd may drink,
While young ones suck
At dry breasts!

And they cannot bleat,
For their mouths are muffled
And the limbs bound
With woven wool and cured hide.

On the shepherd's table,
Roasted lamb goes to rot
While the sheep watch
Munching cassava flakes.

But I pity him, the Shepherd,
For I hear 'bleatbules';
A rising crescendo of sheepish hearts
Soon to roar like wounded lions!

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