Lucky Dip

If I had to choose a sheep it would be you
If I had to work in a brothel it would be nice
With everybody going baa baa baa
Baa Barbarann. In the background
A timeshare sucker whispers by
Silently pulling the wool over our eyes
By the fecund name of Nantwich. If "sheep" be,
I ask, oh, only to write my incest in the sun
Over a lamb sandwich, tribal with impounded
Oafs. The excellence of They, the excellence of We,
The sheer sciurine briskness of it,
Taking money for a second-rate bed
Is pratfallen sheep-dip for the testicl?d squire;
but who? where? any sign of rain?
The awful Norseness of your frozen brain
Deters me Thursdays. Think, love, only this:
As sheepspiss in the sodding columbines of the morning
(Crocus witchcakes still lambing it in the golly sward),
Sheepsbliss in the Hurley of the night,
All detriment and VPL and cornflak'd fright
Of what we never were. I'll take my honking dewlap
With no other intent
Than to burnish our lank ears with turtle jelly;
And no other ambition
Than to pixellate the ever-trundling juries
That selfishly lay puddles for your strong Celtic jaws.
Tomorrow, or tomorrow night...
While sheep not stir, say, where no Blunkett caws
Nor meddles? that will postulate our creaking
To juniper islands in the slugness of a turvey
That sheep do not identify as a survey
Once curdled. After all, when said's not less,
A sheep will never ease you from your raddled cress.