Ewe Got Plenty of Mutton

I’ll never be part of the heard…

I’ll always be art of the said,

the speaker of all those BIG words,

the herd cant get out of their head.

Not shaven, not shortened, not sheared–

but growing by virtue of speech.

sweet nothings that fill up the ears,

of sheep designated for fleece.

I’ll never remind you of ewe…

My wool can negate your ram.

spoken, or spiel’ed, or spew

knit sweaters with letters—I can!

Not Mary, not Jesus, not law

will ever describe me as lamb,

the chops that I got are in jaw–

the thoughts that I jot are mint jam.

©Karen Robiscoe