In place of congregation, there’s a flock of errant sheep
Who by and large ignore him. It’s enough to make him weep.
The Reverend Pheasant tries his best to make these sinners rue
Their misdeeds and their trespasses, then move to pastures new.
He struts towards those gathered in waistcoat mottled brown
With cheeks suffused a florid red, he looks them up and down.
Smart feathers flap behind him. His dog collar’s pristine white.
He searches for a choice of phrase will make them see the light.
His patience stretched and short-lived, ill-temper’s in his eye.
They must repent by August or they all will surely die.
“Stand up. Stand up for Jesus. Come back into the fold.
The Shepherd’s good. He loves you,” the Reverend gent cajoled.
But sheep are sheep and just like sheep they need a lead to follow
And “Lamb of God Redeemer”, they found too hard to swallow.
The Reverend Pheasant gave a shrug and left them to their fate.
The sheep chewed cud but took the time to slowly ruminate.