The feeble tottering little feet
Of market driven woolly sheep
Go trotting into market square,
As Christians neither look nor care.
For people carrying cuts of meat
Don't connect them to the trotting feet
Now locked up in their concrete pound
The sheep watch Christians, howeaward bound.
Next time you're in a market square
And see the sheep imprisoned there,
Glance into a pleading face -
Can you go home, and still day grace?