White fluffy clouds in a clear green sky
Nibbling the grass as I walked by.
The electronic sheep went ‘Bleeeeeep!’
-which didn’t help me get to sleep.
I wandered lonely
as a sheep,
thinking many sheepish thoughts,
though none were deep;
I wondered for a while upon
where the other sheep had gone.
Whilst munching grass
and chewing cud,
across the fields
like a cloud
I’d scud.
I am the ghost in the machine,
the elephant in the room,
the fly in the ointment,
the wolf in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing
for what I am.
I am the ghost in the room,
the elephant in the machine,
the wolf in the ointment,
and the fly in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing
of what I have become.
I am the wolf in the room,
the fly in the machine,
the elephant in the ointment,
the ghost in sheep’s clothing;
and I have a loathing for this type of poem,
where the combinations grow
with every word
ever more and more absurd –
I am the septic in the poem,
or should that be sceptic?
Anyway, as I was saying,
I am the poet
in the septic,
tank.
No, that’s not right…
I am the poet in the room,
sheepishly wearing wolf’s clothing,
flying in the ghost machine,
whilst coated in ointment…
allegedly.
Ship to shore can you hear me?
Is there anybody out there quite near me?
I’ve come round to thinking,
that my craft is thinking;
and even though the water’s only three foot deep,
I know I’ll wake up when I go to sleep.
I know I will wake up when I go to sleep
It’s no use my even counting hundreds of sheep,
they just stand on the hillside there, in a flock
and then they all run about, they run amock.
Thoughts and images confuse my mind,
I’m looking for an answer,
a question I find;
I seem to be the blind man not leading the blind,
how on Earth do I get to unwind.
I’m like a coiled spring,
a wound up thing
that wound up here
on the first day of Spring,
or that sort of thing.
I’m the man in the corner,
a little Jack Horner
for the twenty-first century,
and I don’t want to be me.
I know I will wake up when I go to sleep
It’s no use my even counting hundreds of sheep,
they just stand on the hillside there, in a flock
and then they all run about, they run amock.
See here for the photograph that inspired the words – G:)
It’s about the trees,
or the sheep,
or the sky.
Swaying in the breeze;
chewing the Winter feed;
or hanging ominously above us –
you know which is to which.
All together
in one picture
they sit side by side,
juxtapositioned
by Nature.
I’ve tried counting sheep;
but, I ran out of fingers –
too many sheep;
not enough fingers;
I tried counting fish..,
fingers!
I tried using my toes,
still not enough.
So I am sticking to counting
unicorns and dragons –
I’ve limbs enough for those.
◦
I was driving along
in my auto-mobile
when I did see
sheep on a hill.
And when I come back
in my auto-mobile,
having been to town,
if they haven’t gone
they will be there still.
The sheep who swear
Sheep talk
when they walk
when they stand still
when upon the side of a hill
When in a field
and they yield
some colourful language.
“Baaaaaaaa!”
We have to bleep
the sheep
who keep
doing this
as it upsets the tourists.
We tried to clean their dirty mouths
and curb their cursing ways…
but, when we hired a sheep whisperer
he failed to stop their swearing
and he cost us a lot of pence
in a sense
we were fleeced.
Wish Ewe Were Here!
Ode to the Letter Ewe
I owe you, Ewe
For all the sheepish looks;
For being able to count on Ewe;
And for Ewe not pulling the wool over my eyes.
I should make this a Ewelogy to Ewe
And not lambast Ewe
As I ram wont to do.
But, I won’t mint sauce my words
I shall put my poetry helmutt on
And opine upon the ovine in Ewe!
So, I say to you, Ewe,
“Your words have helped me rhyme
Time upon time
Ewe have flocked to my aid
When I needed a sheep pen
To write with
And an inkwell to sheep dip
That pen into.
Ewe!
I owe Ewe.
Thank Ewe.
 | cagedunn on The Giraffe in the Room |
 | Words from a Lentil… on The Giraffe in the Room |
| cagedunn on The Giraffe in the Room |
| Words from a Lentil… on The Giraffe in the Room |
| cagedunn on The Giraffe in the Room |
