Intrepid lambs refuse to yield,
and wait for death behind the hedge.
They slip the gate and flee the field,
and stray beyond the gulag’s edge.
In disbelief at what they’ve done,
they wander sheepish down the lane.
Inept to bank this prize they’ve won,
they scramble back inside again.
An ugly sight for passing cars,
two jailbirds without wings to fly,
resigned to hang in abattoirs,
a vulgar way for lambs to die.