All the sheep have been pacified;
penned in, pinned down, passed out,
as their coats are roughly shorn.
The wool is pulled over; passive eyes,
skewing views, from amassing doubt,
preventing a herd from being warned.
The foxes’ cunning; salivates,
at the very thought of consuming;
a lamb, without a wary flock.
A sly, auld plan, to isolate,
with shorn coat, ‘put on’; for grooming,
makes a veiled ovine, of the fox.
Though the lamb, naively trusts,
this shape-shifting, deceptive, con,
there’s an unsettled feeling within,
an inkling, a notion, that revolts, disgusts,
whenever this Reynard, speaks upon,
their analogy, and, how they’re akin.
The fox, lured the lamb, into the woods,
the Merino, extended fox’s journey,
ridiculing Reynard’s valor; lost,
across the road the yearling trudged,
being followed; by crushing mercy,
as, crimson lorry wheel, and, sheepish precocity,
had alas, finally, outfoxed the fox.
poorman'sdreams 