Bleat Poet (or, A Lamb at the Slam)

It was a quarter after my own understanding when I saw Farmer Brown.
She looked down and said,
“What do you have to say, woolly man?”
I said, Whoa, Mary – blam de lam,
I AM your little lamb,
And I do have one thing to say.

But nothing about the meadow,
the breeze,
Sippin’ water from a stream,
Grass-eating,
Life-breathing,
bleating to the beat, and
Bounding! in this beautiful butterfly world,

Not about my fleece face, not about my place
On the farm, not another barnyard yarn;
Not about the cows, the sows,
Or the other sheep,
Not about Bo Peep
and how she lost us.
Or how we’re all lost, anyway, man.
Growin’ and cuttin’,
Growin’ and cuttin’,
Growin’ and cuttin’
But um,
Somethin’ else to say.

Not about being shaggy clad
or how it makes me mad
when you fill your bag full.
Not about how you take it –
Make it into a sweater,
Whether or not I shiver,
Shaved skin to the wind,
You win!

You’re here to shear,
But hear my one thing.

That you can take my wool,
‘Cause I got lots.
My one thing is,
Please.
I’m pleading.
Don’t eat my chops.