Wild 'n' muddy is yer jolly face,

Great chieftain o the woolly race!

Above 'em all y' take yer place,

On Cinderford High Street.

The groanin' locals curse you there,

You just stare back, without a care,

The traffic stops while you just eat,

On Cinderford High Street.

Alpacas come and llamas too,

But none has quite the charm of ewe.

The Forest scene is not complete,

Without some sheep on the High Street.

When times were hard and ewe were taken,

By harsh disease you caught from bacon,

We missed you then, our sheep forsaken,

On Cinderford High Street.

The Frenchies get all 'ot and bothered,

'Bout our lamb in their food cupboard,

But you just lie there, undiscovered,

On Cinderford High Street.

Poor devils!  With your nose in trash,

Give our garden fence a bash,

I'll sell yer fleece to raise some cash,

On Cinderford High Street.

But mark the Rustic, forest sheep,

Their date with fate they all must keep,

Into the road like lemmings leap,

On Cinderford High Street.

Y' Powers, who make the verges all yer own,

The mighty ram when e's full grown,

Auld Forest wants no bore or deer,

'Er wish is always very clear,

Give us our sheep!

 

– Rob Sedman, Ross.