by Rene Pietersen

Created on: August 12, 2009

Allergies are abundant,
As unmasked are the shears.
These tools of metal create quite a stir,
Sheep doth face their darkest fears.

Sullen Sheep travel toward the farms,
Their angst is felt in every step.
They do not choose to gather,
For it is merely a promise they have kept.

Their unwritten code of conduct states:
"Be you tall, short, or small,
Each Sheep must donate fur,
Not just a patch, but all."

Where does this fur go?
I too have wondered for quite a while,
The answer came as quite a shock!
For I have only seen the fur stay in a pile.

Once the day is finally over,
When every Sheep is completely bare,
Farmer zooms down in all his glory,
And he steals each strand of hair!

It is said he makes fine clothing,
With all this stolen fluff,
But really, why take the Sheep fur?
Those poor creatures sure have it tough!

When the day is done, there are no shouts of joy,
(Not a single hurrah or hip, hip, hooray!).
Across the land sneezes still echo,
For it's Sheep Shearing Day!

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