Chris the Sheep

Lamb of the Monaro,
Beneath the stark blue sky,
In the frost hollows, tree line inverted,
Chris the Merino grew to wether hood.
Spurned by his shorn brethren,
And frightened by men and their stockyards,
He fled.
At first his growing coat was a comfortable barrier,
To winter gales, rain, sleet and occasional snow.
In summer he sought the cooler shelter of the wooded hills.
Time passed but his overgrown staple,
Continued to overgrow.
He became dwarfed by his prison of fleece.
As he passed from lamb to, two tooth to old mutton,
His burden only became greater.
By shear luck he remained upright.
Many a less laden sheep has turned turtle and perished,
With ridiculous legs gesticulating to the heavens.
Luck was on his side.
For he was spotted,
After six years of avoiding the board,
And with great fanfare,
Shorn.
Chris the sheep,
Cultivator of the heaviest fleece,
In the history of shearing.