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April 10, 2014
Oh, Hamish darling
I have heard that Sandy
has developed foot rot
and may finish up bandy.
It’s just a rumour
I heard it too.
It’s the latest trend
to paint trotters cobalt blue.
Sandy picked it up
from her cousins kids
when acting the goat
on a night out on the skids.
So don’t fret over her hooves
of bright dolly blue.
It’ll never catch on, and
gives her something to do.
I have to cut her some slack,
on her Ewes night out.
I keep my mutton chops shut,
if I know what I’m about.
Oh, Hamish darling,
you wise moorside herald.
Did you inherit your tact
from great uncle Gerald?
You hack these hills
like a satellite,
yet no mobile network
is there in sight!
You flatter my wisdom
but when the swamps came,
I had little choice,
other than, to up my game.
And those wind turbines
still a constant pain.
If they fell on our heads
we’d all become insane.
Our loyal shepherdess
and chief hill protector,
ever watchful too
with her metal detector.
patrols these woods
knowing a little prick
from her magic wand
will do the trick.
She also zaps the poachers
who quake with fear,
becoming a tasered melt down
from her lethal spear.
It gives us peace of mind
knowing too that the deer,
also our trusted friends,
have nothing to fear.
So all things equal
life is pretty good.
We coped with the floods
and the wretched mud.
And lambing time
has brought the sun
which for Sandy and I
as grandparents is fun.
And with human hikers,
again in our field, we find.
To ‘mint sauce’ jokes once more,
we’ve become resigned.
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