You once declared me to be the unrepentant Black Sheep

and then tried to laugh with damning justification of my actions,

but all I could hear from your woollen mouth

was the constant bleating of the high and mighty wronged.

The black wool is there as a reminder of the mistakes I have regretfully made,

but you never cared to mention the whiteness of my stomach

compared the nasty deep  smoke stained, barbeque ready,

yellow belly that hides underneath your disgusting grandeur.

The Black Sheep found another flock in which to keep time with,

sometimes better to be with those who admit they were wrong

and shunned by the gathering and the noisy, all together at the same time bleating,

than to declare yourself whiter than white.

The grass may well not be greener on the other side,

but is toiled with more unashamed honesty

than the carefully manicured lawn you have munched down upon.

Your teeth as green as your heart, full of Macbeth envy and raging Othello jealousy!

I have played your self- appointed part and let you bust my chops

frequently, for me no honour in it all and for you,

my dear friend, I congratulate you from behind the clearing fire and billowing smoke

for attempting to throw me in the pit in a bid to get rid of my foot in mouth.

I escape with my life and found a new field and watch

as you are consumed by the very fire you started,

the black wool which you sprayed me with,

now sheared by a gentle caring shepherd.

Ian D. Hall.  2014