Saint Skirtus, the illustrious mud-covered sheep
Anointed with what we thought the highest leap
Over the tree stumps and into the bed
Leaves on her rumpus, honeybees on her head
We loved Saint Skirtus and she loved us
We fought the alarm clock by the darning egg
She came forth with a mistral and without a fuss
She scampered up hillsides on eggplantish leg
The fleece on her chinstrap was covered in burrs
Her hooves must’ve been rubber, the way they plucked up
My niece found her twitching all there in the snow
She wasn’t quite dead yet, but my niece didn’t know
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