The Shepard looks over his flock
With wordily nobility.
He shrieks, he mocks,
With whips, he talks.
They baah, they rock,
Next time he draws his hand, perhaps they flee.
However, in cataclysmic times,
White sheep turn black,
And scare crows won't scare crows,
But scare folks,
Leaving room for a boisterous mortal feast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem