(prompt: ‘mistake’ Aug 14 2020)
Young Rastus the sheep was never to blame
Though I should’ve called him Rambo, HIS perfect name.
I shoulder the blame, I taught him to fight
Head-on ‘gainst my fist, at first seemed alright.
Small orphan lamb, so cute being tough.
Soon he was seeking much sterner fighting stuff.
Who’d ever have guessed, as he outgrew his wool,
His favourite sport would be fighting our bull?
To tell the honest truth, he was not a full ram,
His future was written when only a lamb.
Perhaps always trying to prove his manhood,
Headfirst into battle like a woolly warrior should.
He’d back off, then charge at incredible speed,
The size of his foe? Ha! He’d take no heed.
You see, no-one had told him he was only a ram,
Rastus the Bullfighter… a most terrible ham.
The bull would roll his eyes and lower his head,
“Oh please, not again?” he clearly said.
“When WILL this woolly jumper realise,
Not only the wrong breed, there’s the question of size!”
Rastus began with Abby, our short-legged black Angus,
A small but worthy opponent for earliest practice.
Undeterred by his bounce-offs, one side to the other,
Rastus never called ‘barleys’, nor for his mother.
Now he took on our Hereford, King Kanute,
of mountainous breadth, a threatening brute,
But shhh…, only on the battlefield, because otherwise,
He’d rumble his pleasure being scratched ’round his eyes.
This time around, Rastus bounced ever higher,
Into grass, into hay, and once (ewww!) in the mire,
But nothing deterred him, he became more vexed,
As he planned and plotted to take on the next.
Down the paddock strutted Napoleon, big ‘daddy’ of our girls,
Not their father exactly, but from the choicest of pearls.
From our best Friesian mother, his Papa was foreign stuff,
When introduced to our finest, got them ALL ‘up the duff’.
With a glowering eye, he sized up his foe,
“He’s a sheep, the mad fool. Doesn’t he know?”
Dropping his head and pawing the ground,
“He’ll bounce into space, ne’er to be found!”
They each backed off, between them much space
Rastus had no fear, he knew he was Ace
His secret weapon that nobody guessed,
Was his thick woolly coat that could pass any test.
With a thunder of hooves, both great and small,
Rasty hit ‘Poly like a solid brick wall.
He flew all right, but on this day.
Landed back in the paddock, and there he did lay.
“OHH NO!! Is it curtains for our old dag?”
Even the shearer near lost his fag.
That sheepish barber had missed the old boy,
Allowing Rasty’s woolly armour to again give him joy.
But finally, as Rastus struggled bravely to his feet,
Somehow it seemed there had been no defeat.
Although a teary little voice was heard to say,
“But Mummy, he didn’t land in the hay.”
“Ahh, hush my dear, pray do not fear,
Look, Rasty’s up again for a quick schloop of beer.
Don’t be mistaken, don’t be misled.
Rastus was saved by his woolly topknot head.”