Originally from: frances fish
                        
Across the shed the breeze blows cool
Sounds of shearing,smells of wool.
Some are done and some still wait
Reluctant to pass through the gate.
Pushing,shoving,"Not me yet
I just won't go through that gate.
Take her first, she's nearer so
She should be the next to go.
Not me".
Bits of wool and lots of oil,
Red of face and at the boil.
Sweat is dripping
Muscles rippling,
Numbers grow.
Lift the fleeces off the floor,
Brush off dirt and pick out straw,
Folded rightly,packed in tightly
Into bags they go.
Carpets,socks and wool for knitters
Insulation, blankets slippers, *
Many uses for our wool.
Oh,how I wish it would cool
Down.
The numbers now are clearly dropping,
What a lovely thought, wer're stopping.
Now I feel my back is aching,
What's that sound my feet are making ?
They have had enough.
Load the sheep up, off we go now,
Thank the shearer for his know-how,
Out into the sun again,
Heading for the fields of home.
At last,
Out they spill into the grass,
Oblivious to all else,
They eat.
And me ? I'm just content to keep
My lovely,smelly, wooly sheep.

* I bet you all thought I was going to write knickers here ? Wooly knickers ? I'm tickled pink at the thought ! Frances