Black Sheep

I was born in the middle of the flock,

warm and blind and doing fine.

I learned to sleep in the crook of the shepherd's arm

and I never asked about the knife.

I could sing every song before I could stand.

I was so good at being no one

they held me up to the lambs:

this is how you do it.

This is all you have to be.

But wool grows over open eyes if you let it. And I let it.

Till I caught my reflection in the sheepdog's teeth

and I finally saw what the shepherd sees:

MEAT. WOOL. MILK. HIDE.

So call me black sheep. I will not wash out.

Call me black sheep. I will not blend.

If the whole world is grazing at the edge of the drop,

somebody has to be the wrong note in the song.

Somebody has to say stop.

They said the field is flat, the fence is love,

the truck that comes in spring is just a ride.

I watched it leave with everyone I knew.

It came back empty. Washed out. Clean inside.

And I know the open field is colder. I know.

And I know the wolves out there have skin.

But better cold and mine than warm in a line

that ends where the hooks begin.

Wool grows over open eyes if you let it. And we let it.

And the blades sound like violins if you don't look up,

and the whole pen hums along:

(baa... ba-da-ba...)

So call me black sheep. I will not wash out.

Call me black sheep. I will not blend.

If the whole world is grazing at the edge of the drop,

somebody has to be the wrong note in the song.

Somebody has to say stop.

The fence is two feet high.

It was always two feet high.

The fence is two feet high.

IT WAS ALWAYS TWO FEET HIGH.

So call me black sheep. I will not wash out.

Call me black sheep. I will not blend.

If the whole world is grazing at the edge of the drop,

somebody has to be the wrong note in the song.

Somebody has to say stop.

...now.