Walking Sheep

It was with some reservations that I agreed to escort the elegant Lori Novo into the wind-swept arroyos of the Dry Lands. I was no stranger to danger, and I had heard some bad things about that deserted region. Bandits, wolves, and indigenous gray people who loved to rise up from the red earth and drag you screaming into their rat-infested burrows.

But Lori wanted to walk her sheep, and so I packed my Phant Gun and we strolled off into the desert, staring in awe at rusted hulking ships that littered the sand like broken beached whales, and peering into deserted circus tents that sagged in the dry air like deflated balloons.

I was enjoying the walk, the quiet conversation, and the soft bleating of the sheep, when I saw large gray figures emerge from the horizon and streak towards us in long loping strides.

Lori screamed in fear and I took gun in hand, and moved to protect her and her flock. The wolves had come...

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Archived poem:

Oh, we're little gray peep,
and we're walking our sheep,
hand in hand we go strolling,
in red Dryland we're walking.

Here comes Lori in gray,
she plays music all day.
Flute in hand she blows notes,
past the hulking dead boats.

Dashing MK he follows,
in his loud voice he bellows:
"Lori bring in the flock,
Cuz the wolves might attack!"

"On no, will you protect us?
But Sir MK you must!"
Little Lori starts crying,
blue eyes wide and imploring.

So they run to the pond,
where the ducks all abound,
And they hide in the reeds,

and the flowering weeds.

When the wolves come a-sniffing,

They charge out and start killing,

like the apocalypse coming,

Now the wolves all start dying.

When the battle is done.

And the wolves are all gone.

Lori gathers the sheep,

for the long return trip.

Oh, we're little gray peep,

and we're walking our sheep,

hand in hand we go strolling,

in red Dryland we're walking.