I see the two-legged sheep, believing what they're told, moving with the flock.
Liking it because others do, because they are told to.
Sheeple I call them; two legged, but without mind.
Grazing, and taking roots and all.
Given the chance to pick their shepherd they do not.
They graze, and watch manufactured reality staged by other sheep.
They have no fence to contain them, what they don't know does that.
Ignorance is bliss, apathy comforting.
They fear the wolf, rather he is near or not.
The idea of the wolf, more fearful than the certainty of the Sheppard's shears or the butcher's knife.
They graze, they watch, until they are sheared or eaten.
The others do not see, they graze; it is what sheep do.