Thou art what thou art
Art thou my love?
Art thou for who the sheep are culled?
Forgotten not are the fondest moments
Stamped with deft kisses, carried by blissful sorrow

Thou art what thou art
For it is not I who cries
Nay, she cries in in place of me
For it is I who may attempt to lie
But she does not deceive me
Tenderly earnest in kisses and naught

Only to find at the shepherd’s feet
The young ewe, she do bleat
Yearn for my caress as she may
Bound by the woollen string of fate
Fleeced of any deception