Never let your sheep go out, unless he's with a friend
For many sheep who walk alone come to a sticky end
Because a woolly bleat for help won't reach the police
Who are not resourced anyway to save a woolly fleece.
What happens to them? Who can tell? The mystery is deep
No one knows just what becomes of loosely roaming sheep
But, tonight, if you go out into the town, it's sure
You will not see a sheep about - they don't go anymore.
So, your little sheepie friend, inside is best to keep
And watch the telly or play games until he falls asleep
There is no need to tie him up or otherwise restrained
He will not miss the nightlife if you keep him entertained.
It's strange to think that once before in days now long ago
Sheep would fill the city streets, as they passed to and fro
While taverns rang with sheepsong amidst woolly ovine cheers
As tales were told of sheeps of old, 'cross tables full of beers.
Yes, they were noisy, they were loud and they could be uncouth
And flocks would often pick fights with some of the local youth
But there was grace and strangely charm and also something dear
In species meeting in a bar, to have a friendly beer.
Those times have gone and, it may be, they do not come again
And we will all be poorer, yet, in ways we can't explain
Those happy sheep, those drunken sheep, the swaying homeward trot
As they returned to country beds - they soon will be forgot.