Sixty Eight Sheep

Sixty eight sheep dancing on my head Wandering across my face, declaring me quite dead. Sure they are little but mighty you see They are fleecy and funny and tickling me. Just count sheep my shrink said kissing me off. I wanted to go; she had a giant Covid 19 cough. Just count sheep, she said, with a wave of her hand. I had no idea I would end up in sheep-shearing land. They are lining across my belly, in line for their cut. Some have bikini waxes, others, shave off their big butt. The next thing you know they will be cutting my hair too. Then frankly I have no idea what I will do. Sixty eight sheep twirling up and down on my bed. I wanted to sleep, but I am babysitting instead. Sixty eight sheep, no, wait. Here’s another ewe. Insomnia is killing me. What the hell should I do?