Counting Sheep
Oh fine little sheep
why must you bleat?
When your manger’s piled high
with strands of wheat.
Think you of the cock
hen pecked by his flock
who must awaken at dawn
to crow from the rocks.
Or the cattle that lo
in their pastures of snow
Could use your fleece coat
when the icy winds blow.
And the pigs in their sty
should borrow your cry
For their mud saddled backs
must itch as they dry.
But I know why you weep
oh wise little sheep
For you count off the days
‘til your wool they will reap.
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