At first they said ‘infect the herd’
but experts told us ‘that’s absurd,
you will cause deaths in the old.
What sort of shepherd risks the fold?’
So they put the cattle in the pen
only to be let out when
the time was right, or so they said,
they didn’t want their people dead.
The woolybacks baa’d and the daft cows moo’d
And farmer Boris calculated the mood
Saying he’d protect us from the cull
Whilst ruminating and spouting bull
As time moved on there was little fun
And the flock began to miss the sun,
as soon as the gate was left ajar
they came stampeding from near and far
to gather, together, on the beach -
thinking the virus couldn’t reach
and touch such special folk as they.
What was their Independence Day
turned out to be the end of trail.
The cattle drive was sure to fail.
Death paddled from the sea, some souls to reap
from the lines of gambolling, stupid, sheep.