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Poem

A jug of wine, a book of verse and thou,
Beneath kind trees that spread their green leaves shady
My sheeps heart beats with love and I seek now
A daisy that this sheep may give his lady

I know, though full of love, I'm just a sheep
No one I think realistically supposes
That one like me can voice his love though deep
With fancy flowers like orchids or like roses

Nor does this sheep have much in pounds and pence
To make pretence for more would just be crazy
So I must make the most of sheepish sense
My Valentine shall be a single daisy

And so I trotted to the flower shop
'Excuse me, Mr Flower Man', said I
'Do you, perchance, have ready in your stock,
A daisy that this little sheep can buy?'

The Flower Man, he looked way down at me
His cold frown pierced my wool fleece cruelly deep
'I did not start in business,' muttered he
'To waste time selling common weeds to sheep.'

Again, I fail! It's my memorium
No flower, no leaf, no stem, not even root
By air I left the flower emporium
Propelled aloft by Mr Flowerman's boot

'Tis cruel, the worldly ways I must endure
Oft ridiculed and often wounded sore
But hero-like, my love forever pure
Burns fierce and earnest right through to my core

I hope one day my princess thinks on me
Perhaps she'll sigh; perhaps she'll shed a tear
For one whose woolly dreams could never be
For one she spurned, yet always held her dear.

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