Mary had a little lamb. His fleece was white as snow
Because he never ventured out where other lambs might go.
He shuddered at the sight of dirt and shunned the thought of grass
And waterholes sent pangs of horror up his lamby arse.
The other lambs were unimpressed. ‘Ridiculous!’ they said.
‘A good sheep should be sheepish and quite meek and easily led.
And as for trotting off to school – how feeble and pathetic!
He’ll never make the weight if he becomes peripatetic.’
But Mary’s lamb ignored them all, believing – as you do –
That he was something else again – one of the chosen few
Whose fleece was of a purity belying every stat.
He really, if the truth be told, became a perfect brat.
But such conceit, dear children, will beget its own comeuppance.
The fact was that his breeding meant his fleece was not worth tuppence,
Albeit white. Genetics said his destiny was mutton
For which you don’t need wool. You simply need to be a glutton.
And while he primped and thought himself a cut above the rest
Their cuts won prizes at the show for fat lamb at its best.
So do not spurn the proffered grass and yearn for cappuccino –
You may discover to your cost you’re Southdown, not Merino.