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Mint Sauce
These tortured souls that wail upon the hills
Whose fleecy coats and jocund smiles conceal
The horrors and the torment they endure.
They live a curs-ed life these beasts in wool
Who swelter in the shade of tiny walls.
In fearsome heat of angry midday sun
Their hunger drives them , constantly to eat.
But slug-filled tufts of thorny thistled herb
Just leave unsated insulated ewes
And rams, unmated, seeking further food.
The foulest flora daily is their cud
Its bitter pulp is their eternal toil.
I’d hate to be a chewing sweating sheep
Whose roasted fate’s to cause my Sunday sleep.
