Well of course must we humans 'counter-attack' this view by
stating our own thoughts on the species in question. So I asked 19
humans: "What do you think about sheep?". I got these answers, in this
order (big foin):
- I like them, preferably well lubricated.
- They are tasty.
- Stay away with the sheep:)
- They're fuzzy. They smell. You can clone them...
- Yummy :>
- C'est cool pour s'y mettre au bout passque la laine ca tient
chaud. (we don't know who wrote that one, do we?) Roughly translated
as: They're cool to stick on the end of your thingie cause the wool
keeps it warm.
- I suspect that sheep are cardboard cutouts that farmers
periodically move about their fields once a week or so.
- I love sheep...I have one sitting right next to me now...
- They baa and have wool.
- They're stupid.
- I don't.
- They're pretty.
- I don't.
- I'm very fond of sheep. I like em in a gyro (Ed: pronounce
'year-row') with some fetta and some onions and tomato.
- Source of wool :P
- They have 4 legs, go baaaa and make nice sweaters, and taste
nicely when grilled.
- Pretty harmless, dull animals.
- Well, they're kind of silly creatures, and they are easily
herded by a shepherd... that is all I know of sheep.
- Well...I am allergic to wool, so I don't think much of them at
all. And that annoying noise they make, hrmph!
**PART 3, nothing more than an interlude, move that body**
Fictitious Story Part (no vomiting)
Once upon a time (how jolly) there lived in an enchanted many-hued
forest (lots of green, though), a big beautiful female sheep named
Bertha. She lived (not repetitive is it?) a happy, carefree life
(no...), in harmony with the birds and bees, and sticks and trees.
(lots of parentheses too) And she loved the warmth of the sun dancing
through the leaves and branches and caressing her soft hide. And she
only smoked pot once a week, which for a sheep living in an enchanted
forest is very little.
One day (Tuesday), Bertha spotted, nailed to one of the trees by her
favourite clearing, a superbly decorated poster. Clip-clopping up to
it (clip-clop), she viewed the following:
| MEDIEVAL BALL |
| TONITE 7pm - TOWN SQUARE |
| MUSIC - DANCING |
| FESTIVITIES |
| BOBBING FOR APPLES |
| TOPLESS SHOWS ;) |
| BRING YOUR OWN BIRD |
Rearing her head to the sky, "How jolly!" she exclaimed. (yes, 'how
jolly' is a well-used phrase in stories like this) "I would love to
partake in the merrymaking."
TOWN SQUARE, 6:58 P.M.
Dumping her pheasant (splat) down on the pile of birds, Bertha
proceeded to rejoice and carouse. Then it was time for the great final
dance. Bertha, who hadn't found the time to dance yet was approached
by a breathtakingly handsome cavalier.
She batted her eyelashes in anticipation.
He reached her.
She held her breath.
He held out his hand.
And cut one of her hind legs off.
Moral: Ewe can't dance with two left feet.
Nursery Rhyme Niania Part (niania goes 'blonk')
~~~~~~~End of Interlude (no popcorn for you)~~~~~~~
**PART 4, poetic lament. Porridge. Big green things.**
So there you have it (not Herpes). Sheep are therefore victims of
human misunderstanding and brutality. And what of those funny Jewish
people who immolate a lamb every year? Has anyone asked the lambs if
they'd prefer a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit instead? DOESN'T
Ted Hughes relates these feelings in a part of his poem, superbly
entitled 'Sheep'. Meditate over it, mortals. (if you're getting bored,
skip to the conclusion. Who cares about poems anyway?)
The mothers have come back
From the shearing, and behind the hedge
The woe of sheep is like a battlefield
In the evening, when the fighting is over,
And the cold begins, and the dew falls,
And bowed women move with water.
Mother mother mother the lambs
Are crying, and the mothers are crying.
Nothing can resist that probe, that cry
Of a lamb for its mother, or an ewe's crying
For its lamb. The lambs cannot find
Their mothers among those shorn strangers.
A half-hour they have lamented,
Shaking their voices in desperation.
Bald, brutal-voiced mothers braying out,
Flat-tongued lambs chopping off hopelessness.
Their hearts are in panic, their bodies
Are a mass of woe, woe they cry,
They mingle their trouble, a music
Of worse and worse distress, a worse entangling,
They hurry out little notes
With all their strength, cries searching this way and that.
The mothers force out sudden despair, blaaa!
On restless feet, with wild heads.
Their anguish goes on and on, in the June heat.
Only slowly their hurt dies, cry by cry,
As they fit themselves to what has happened.
**PART 5, conclusion; vibratory movements**
Bloodthirsty lust; physical lust. Do sheep not have greater control
over us than we could ever believe?
Or are they just big, fat, fuzzy thingies?
Who go baaa.
In the night.