Cycling to Cubbon park last Sunday early dawn whistling joyfully, I heard the bleating. Here I was, full of life, going to the park for a long run, and here were  goats tied to the pole opposite the butcher shop, bleating pitifully before they become the special Sunday lunch.  

That is when I thought “Oh dear, they bleat and for they will be soon meat, they will never see the teen, for they will become just protein’.