Whether the wether was wet,

the weather certainly was. His fleece,

not his fleas, which fled, fleeing the weather;

whether the wether’s withers were wet or not.

 

The wether wondered whether wandering was fun

as he wended his way with a flock on a fell.

He fell into step with a sheep that he knew

who said I’m no sheep can’t you see I’m a ewe.

 

You’re me? said the wether, how can that be,

when you know I’m a wether , whether you or me.

I was a ram when I started out but

now I’m a wether, whether you like it or nought.

 

So sad, said the ewe, as they strolled the fall fell.

Whether wether or not, not withered as well?

Though you look like a ram you act like a ewe

Which is sad for a sheep, who took ewe for a you.

 
 
David Garlick, Sidney, December, 2006