Uppy Day Sheepy, as a rousie could gloat,
for he knew a sheep, from a cow and a goat.
He stood four foot nine, and weighed six stone three,
chock-a-block with sponge cake, and audacity.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with a fleece.
He could pick up a belly, and round up the geese.
He’d learned to tell, a comb from a cutter, but cute cuddly bah lambs, made his heart flutter. 

Uppy Day Sheepy, was a soul to be feared.
Where chooks must be plucked, or sheep must be sheared.
He controlled sheep as if they were dazed.
Paul, Mort and Dudley, were simply amazed,
to see woolly sardines, from roof down to floor.
They had to crutch faster, or he’d pen up more.
Sheep pushed the roof up, and bulged out the walls.
So Dudley had Mort’s sheep, and Morton got Paul’s. 

Uppy Day Sheepy, had filled in that day.
‘Cause the regular Rousie, had just run away.
He couldn’t keep pace, with this trio of guns.
So they brought the young bloke, and thought they’d have fun.
But oh, what a dreadful mistake they had made.
‘Cause he worked like a demon, and had them afraid,
they’d be buried beneath, a mountain of sheep.
It was all they could do, to keep crutching and weep. 

A great woolly wall, appeared in the shed.
To slow for an instant, meant they’d have been dead.
But how did he do it? The three cursed and swore.
By stopping to look, they’d be squashed to the floor.
But just after dark, when he’d stopped for a wee.
The men snuck a squizzy, ‘twas something to see.
Our gun penner-upper, was down on all four.
A sheep-whisp’rer working, they’d not seen before. 

They heard “Uppy day sheepy, please go in the pen?
If you don’t go nicely, I won’t be your friend.
If it’s no trouble, would all your mates go?
I know it’s the weekend; the shearers are slow.
But, please understand, sheepy why we have come?
I’m sure you don’t like, having flies round your bum.
The shearers are nice men; my Dad and his mates.
They’ve come here to groom you. Please pop through the gates.” 

So the legend of Uppy Day, spread through the land.
Never had logic yet, penned up a lamb.
Never had three shearers, been so dumb struck,
or in awe of true brilliance, knee deep in muck.
Never would Morton, or Paul take the mickey,
or Dudley let their normal bloke take a sickie.
They’d learned to respect, in a new kind of way.
Our champion Rousie; the great Uppy Day.