One of our syndicate is obviously desperate for our last ewe, Maz, to lamb and wrote the following:
The phone alarm rings and I crash out of bed,
pull on my trousers while clearing my head,
is this visit a check or does that lamb need feeding,
my rough scribbled note makes difficult reading.
Quiet down the stairs, fall over a dog in a heap,
now I'm really awake, not walking in my sleep,
Find my fleece, baseball cap and the wind-up flashlight,
Then creep through the back door out into the night.
I approach the shed keenly with fingers well crossed,
look over and soon see that all hope is lost,
I glower and I wish that she only just would...
but Maz stares back contentedly chewing the cud.
Are you really pregnant or just a great ball of fluff?
If the former I wish you would soon do your stuff.
Or is it just wind and if I give you a start,
you'll suddenly explode with an almighty fart!