- Location
- N.Lincs
Fed up with all the doom and gloom in the world (nuff said 
) and with pretty much everybody lambing or getting close to lambing, I thought it was time to re-visit some of Henry Brewis's dry, northern wit.
....................
.................
A Dying Race
The yow is a creature I've studied too long,
And still found no reason to burst into song,
The beast is not witty, amusing or well read,
And gives the impression she'd rather be dead,
Whether it's post or just ante natal,
Every disease will be more or less fatal,
For the length of her life she will always desire,
To baffle the shepherd and quickly expire,
You may think the animal is quite tame,
But nothing runs far when it's constantly lame,
Dose her, inject her, take care if her feet,
If science can cure her then the bugger won't eat,
The fit ones have singles, the worst produce three,
All with a brain the size of a pea,
And mother can't count, her arithmetic stinks,
So she may have had more than the stupid bitch thinks,
They're awkward, they're brainless, you must come to terms,
That bugs and bacteria and most of all worms,
Will assist every sheep to escape from this earth,
As quickly as possible, soon after birth,
The breed doesn't matter, they're all on a par,
The trouble comes with them, you needn't look far,
They're only appeal comes later of course,
With small new potatoes and a little mint sauce.
The Vet
She got a tin of Terramycin
And a bottle full of dope
A pint of penicillin
And a canny bit of hope
The vet was optimistic
He'd worked miracles before
But the yow was quite determined
And she died at half past four
The vet was very sad indeed
He thought it might've lived
And I was disappointed too
'Cos he charged me ninety quid
) and with pretty much everybody lambing or getting close to lambing, I thought it was time to re-visit some of Henry Brewis's dry, northern wit.....................
A Dying Race
The yow is a creature I've studied too long,
And still found no reason to burst into song,
The beast is not witty, amusing or well read,
And gives the impression she'd rather be dead,
Whether it's post or just ante natal,
Every disease will be more or less fatal,
For the length of her life she will always desire,
To baffle the shepherd and quickly expire,
You may think the animal is quite tame,
But nothing runs far when it's constantly lame,
Dose her, inject her, take care if her feet,
If science can cure her then the bugger won't eat,
The fit ones have singles, the worst produce three,
All with a brain the size of a pea,
And mother can't count, her arithmetic stinks,
So she may have had more than the stupid bitch thinks,
They're awkward, they're brainless, you must come to terms,
That bugs and bacteria and most of all worms,
Will assist every sheep to escape from this earth,
As quickly as possible, soon after birth,
The breed doesn't matter, they're all on a par,
The trouble comes with them, you needn't look far,
They're only appeal comes later of course,
With small new potatoes and a little mint sauce.
The Vet
She got a tin of Terramycin
And a bottle full of dope
A pint of penicillin
And a canny bit of hope
The vet was optimistic
He'd worked miracles before
But the yow was quite determined
And she died at half past four
The vet was very sad indeed
He thought it might've lived
And I was disappointed too
'Cos he charged me ninety quid
