Back in the fall of sixty-three…
Or was it sixty-four?
There was a minor skirmish that
‘Bout caused a barnyard war.
South feedlot yard on Shiloh Farm
Was where they kept the bull.
His name was Pierre Bullregard --
For short -- The General.
Fenced inside north pasture hills,
The sheep would safely lay
Beside the still creek waters,
With no worries that they’d stray.
North pasture hills and south feedlot
Were separated by
A current wielding ‘lectric fence
That stood ‘bout three feet high.
The General would often graze
Next to the ‘lectric fence.
His tough old hide got many zaps
Before he gained some sense.
Some days he’d walk the fence line
And some days trot -- for fun.
He carved a furrow in the ground --
A trail we called Bull Run.
That day of infamy that left
The General so distraught --
A sheep was grazing near the fence
Next to the south feedlot.
The General from across the fence
Was thinking, Muttonhead.
Then sheep’s eye locked with bull’s eye,
And “Baaaaaaaad,” the sheep’s mouth said.
“How dare that sheep from ‘cross the fence
Accuse me with that word!”
Sheep bleated out that “Baaaaaad” again
And “Baaaaaaad” The General heard.
Instead of letting bygones be
At night he counted sheep.
Then “Baa-Baaaaaad” echoed through his mind
And drove away his sleep.
Like chewing cud, his anger was
His all-consuming thoughts ’bout sheep
Envisioned things hostile.
The bull was livid and revenge
Became his sole obsession,
Payback for a misconceived
North pasture sheep aggression.
He pawed the ground then charged the fence
His eyes were seeing red.
And steam expelled from out his nose
And dust shook from his head.
He shorted out the ‘lectric fence.
Sparks crackled in the air.
His hair was singed, but in he slipped
Though none the worse for wear.
So blinded by his anger
He chased the sheep that day,
Till men in white coats were called in
And carted him away.
Folks said he went to market.
Some said he bought the farm.
Perhaps he cashed his cow chips in --
He ain’t been ’round this barn.
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