13 October 2011


My new animal friend, Beau, seems to have inspired a veritable epidemic of poetry. For those who do not investigate "comments" boxes and also to simply showcase the poetic talents of my intellectual visitors, I have done some copying and pasting. So here we go:-

Oh Kind Sir

Oh Kind Sir
I do thee entreat
that you listen to my earnest bleat
that you should get to know me better
(before you see me as a sweater
or a woolly rug beneath your feet}
and I guess that my hunch is,
that if I become your Sunday lunches
that you will find it hard to sleep,
feel guilty when you’re counting sheep
when you know I love you bunches.

I feel you have the right to know
just how much I love you so
and I think that you ought’a
(if you wish to take this lamb to slaughter)
consider that I am your best friend -

Ian at "Shooting Parrots" quoting Ellis Parker Butler:-

The Sheep

The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
And is both singular and plural—
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.”

Katherine at "The Last Visible Dog":-

YP's Sheep

From where I stand the sheep stands still
As stones against the stony hill.

The stones are gray
And so are they.

And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.

Two mingled flocks -
The sheep, the rocks.

And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.

Never pellets can this sheep excrete
'cos this one's made of paint'd 'crete.

When thou art old

When thou art old and lying in thy bed
And thinking of the dumb things thou hast said
Wilt thou recall those halcyon days of old
When thou didst on thy friends these posts unfold?
O Yorkshire lad, they trusted thou wast true
Who gave to them each day a piece of ewe.

As you can see from the above, poetry is not dead! It is alive and well and living in the blogosphere. I dedicate this post to my faithful companion Beau without whom this outpouring of spontaneous linguistic dexterity would not have happened. And to those who hesitate to craft poems, I hope this post inspires you to sharpen your quills, dip deep into the inkwell of life and release the poetic spirits that lurk inside us all.


  1. Lurking...like some kind of sub-clinical infection, mayhap?

  2. Cor! What poems! I'm right impressed. It's Autumn - where's my woolly vest?

  3. Yorkshire Pudding Sir

    Your excellent post was the inspitation leading to my entreaty on behalf of Dear Beau.

    There is a certain part of the country where our woolly friends are known as 'Mint Sauce' which suggests to me that our woolly friends fate is well defined there. How callous!

    (I hope you have reconsidered Beau's possible fate for if not, I shall have to become a sheep hugger!)

    Yours with affection

    Anna :o]

  4. PS Inspitation should of course be inspiration - apologies, excuse being that I have taken to gin as I am so troubled re Beau's possible fate - and am therefore quite tipsy.

    Consider this knock-on effect when you next look Beau in the eye.

    Anna :o]

  5. HyperCRYPTICal - Perhaps you need instipating at your local hospital which is often the treatment prescribed to those who binge on alcohol to alleviate their sorrows. Ultimately, all sheep must die. That's reality I'm afraid. You just have to learnt to embrace it.

  6. "Instipating" means the ingesting of foodstuffs that turn out to be constipating. Or it will when I write my dictionary.


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