This poem a shorn sheep,
with nothing to do but grow hair,
and the shepherd tending her clouds,
enough to make you yawn.
Such a tired, old metaphor.
Maybe the sound of pan-pipes will soothe the seeker of news.

(But here’s the skinny: the Shepherd in the sky has a glass ceiling, see?
Name’s Pan and he’s the god of shepherds
I expect the Shepherd don’t like him much
Makes fun of his goat head and calls him names like “devil”
Trying to overthrow him maybe, become the God of All, see?
Small wonder we sheep are deciding to overthrow the Shepherd now
But Pan ain’t the top man, and there's no bottom to this spiral neither.)