The Sheep Gang
Miles away from where you live in your sky-searching city
There's a large brown hill also wearing clouds.
Like the condemned man's blindfold.
Nothing actually grows on this rock-garbed hill,
The grass that you have in your parks doesn't even rise here.
Those sickened green blades drooped and cut the ground years ago.
You could say it's as barren as the dim sheep
That stumble another inch towards the hiding peak everyday.
How they moan and baa and push and fall ten feet backwards,
Some even get back up and walk down the wrong way.
Though there isn't a right way anywhere they go.
From the day you arrived and the day you left
They have not moved one claw closer to the top;
It's just the cloud keeps sagging down.
I susppose it can't take their bleating.
All night and most of the day they spend boasting,
Boasting to one another about how they are rams.
And according to each, he is the only one.
They eat their own scraggy wool now that all the grass is gone,
Sometimes they will kill the fool infront
And complain of chewy mutton.
The hill veils herself behind her blanket of rocks
And watches them cannabalise.
She knows they don't have long.
Then she can snatch off her grey bedspread,
Excavate out a breath and life may re-grow.
Finally, it'll be ready for a city of your's.
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Comments about this poem (The Sheep Gang by Sandy Player )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
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