Classic Poem

The Sheep is blind; a passing owl,
A surgeon of some local skill,
Has undertaken, for a fee,
The cure. A stump, his surgery,
Is licked clean by a Cat; his tools —
A tooth, a thorn, some battered nails —
He ranges by a shred of sponge
And he is ready to begin.
Pushed forward through the gaping crowd,
" Wait, " bleats the Sheep; " is all prepared? "
The Owl lists forceps, scalpel, lancet —
The old Sheep interrupts his answer;
" These lesser things may all be well;
But tell me, friend — how goes the world? "
The Owl says blankly: " You will find it
Goes as it went ere you were blinded. "
" What? " cries the Sheep. " Then take your fee
But cure some other fool, not me:
To witness that enormity
I would not give a blade of grass.
I am a Sheep, and not an Ass. "