Black Sheep, A Poem

Black Sheep

Deep gray clouds shroud
England in mist over
Craggy moors flexing
Their rugged muscles
If you listen hard
Enough you can
Hear Heathcliff crying

White sheep graze glazed
Chomp chomp chomping
On all that green green grass
A ewe sits on a stone wall
Staring into the infinite
Like a fleecy buddah

One black sheep stands
In the corner of the green field
Wearing black shades
Smoking an unfiltered cigarette
Muttering under his breath
That would be me
If I were a sheep I think
As it starts to rain

About David Sterry

David Henry Sterry is the author of 16 books, a performer, muckraker, educator, book editor, activist, and book doctor. His first memoir, Chicken, was an international bestseller, and has been translated into 10 languages. “As laconic as Dashiell Hammett, as viscerally hallucinogenic as Hunter S Thompson. Sex, violence, drugs, love, hate, and great writing, what more could you ask for?” – The Irish Times.
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