What are you going to do,
Bedraggled fluffy ewe,
When all the Shepherds have vanished?
I suppose I will listen
To the cries of the canyon,
Bending soft around the light of the moon.
Then where will you go,
What houses do you know,
What stones can you still throw
Towards the ocean throbbing and vast?
They say that on the East Coast
There are many Shepherds still,
And there I will rasp on their door.
But who will you take,
What wills will you break,
How ever will you let down
The downy weight of your wool?
You must take me for a fool.
I will travel alone by night,
Where the stars lay siege to my load.
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