The herds of sheep very uniform,
As the designed muffler on the platform,
Sway in the same direction as the front,
Ready to be sheared and slaughtered at any minute.
The herds of these animals seem to be obedient,
Not known to anyone that their are such characters,
Following the instinct of where the grass grows fast,
A few may not want to be one of them to get fooled.
Feed them more to grow their muscle and call it mutton,
Feed them enough to elongate the fur to call it wool,
Feed them grant to dislodge the taste to call them citizens,
Herds of fashion and frills are ready to go up and down
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem