Sheep By Scott Eck The sheep like clouds are massing On top of Shoot Flying Hill. They descend on the town in the summer, Bleating popular nonsense until The sun returns to the South, Leaving them freezing & quivering... Their fleecy gym shorts not quite enough To keep their numbers from shivering. If Jesus told you I was evil, Would you still talk to me? Would you ask for his credentials? Would you demand to see I.D. ? It makes me restless and worried, Jumping fences in my sleep: That they listen to his preaching, For Jesus was a sheep. Fall in line... Stay in line And get aboard the truck. Even those who had a mind, Now don't give a fuck. If they told you I was a freak, Would you still call me on the phone? Or would you suddenly become "busy" And leave me all alone? The sheep like clouds are massing On top of Shoot Flying Hill. They descend on the town in the summer, Bleating uniform garbage until You finally listen and Grow a fleece of white And leave here in the winter With the herd in flight. © 1997, Scott Eck