Yan, Tan, Tethera

Yan, Tan, Tethera… the shepherd counts his sheep;
I wonder, as he counts them, does he ever fall asleep?
The woolly flock, in rank and file a military disgrace,
Flee from the friendly shepherd in a crazy, ram-led, race.

I wonder does the shepherd ever wonder of his flock
If they really understand that they’re an edible kind of stock.
Or do they graze unwitting of their butcher’s destination,
That their legs will soon be dinner for a hungry human nation.

They’re the dumbest kind of creature and yet they have their charm
As they move in wavelike motion across the hilly farm.
The wonder is the pasture on the slopes will turn to meat
(Or some creamy dairy product: milk or cheese) for us to eat.

Life for the sheep is simple though it has its share of threats:
The winter’s bite at lambing; the fox or wolf that sets
Its hungry sights on lambs and sheep that, heedless, carry on,
Leaving safety to the shepherd or to the farmer’s gun.

I sit and think on these things as the dish comes to the table,
The mint sauce on the sideboard – that’s not too execrable.
For th’ambition of the farmer with the lonely shepherd’s aid
Is to fatten them for slaughter – then the table's truly laid!