Saturday, December 22, 2007


When I was young and couldn't sleep I'd commence to count sheep. After three or four jumped the fence I'd buzz and snore till way past dawn. Then I'd rise, rub my eyes, scratch any place I please, stretch and kvetch, get up, have a cup or two of home-brew Joe. Then, wide awake, I'd be ready to take on a world that waits for me, the bright eyed guy of industry.

Now I'm old and tired and the desired snooze I sure can use refuses to let me lose myself in sleep. Like I did when just a kid, I resort to the sport of counting sheep. As numbers rise, to my surprise, absurd herds of wooly beasts stampede at speed faster than I can calculate in my wide awake sleepy state.

As I lie in bed, my eyes bulging in my head, the leader of the pack, a big black sheep, takes a giant leap and with a bah-bah-bah and a hoo-hee-hah flops on my mattress next to me. "Shut your eyes, go to sleep," he sighs..

I roll to my side, say goodnight and fell asleep next to my friend, the big black sheep. But the sheep begins to snore, peacefully, counting my family. When he reaches one hundred two I pull his wool and say quite cruel, "Your uncle is a mixed breed, your dad was rotten cotton to the core. Why your silky sweet sister married that sap, a former burlap potato sack, I'll never know'"

"There's lot of artificial fiber on your family tree," sleepy sheep says to me. ."Rumor is, your brother's a closet polka-dot; Your father was part of a plaster cast, Your mother has a checkered past. And who are you? A former blue serge suit full of bullet holes and pockets packed with stolen dinner rolls,"

Which only goes to show that men and sheep are clothes relatives, skin deep and cheap.


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