The Sheepmen

Down by the river in the juniper grove, An old man in a mushroom using his stove Cooks mutton and grain and nail clippings from toes Pigs feet and macabre munchies assorted of those The Sheepmen are lonely, and blue in the head They talk with their hands and eat with their legs Fuzzy ears and square noses, In pictures strike poses, Yet eat what they are, and they are all dead In the city they toil, with foil and broil Up trouble, then double, when word comes of oil Fire eats wool as if wool were the Snark Who rotted away when he stayed after dark The Sheepmen are lonely, and blue in the head They talk with their hands and eat with their legs Fuzzy ears and square noses, In pictures strike poses, Yet eat what they are, and they are all dead Beside me one sits in languid levity He whispers inanely, clutching his negligee I slide down my settle and look for my mettle I find none, thus leave him a searching unsettled The Sheepmen are lonely, and blue in the head They talk with their hands and eat with their legs Fuzzy ears and square noses, In pictures strike poses, Yet eat what they are, and they are all dead