From the stable bounds a lamb so sweet. . .
shame that she could be table-bound for eats,
caaaaaaaaarved up, served—nonvegetarian haute cuisine.
Laaaaaaaaamb chops would be a fate of vengeance so mean.

(Up she’s ground!)

Little laaaaaaamikins is going “Baaaaaaaaa!”
soon complement a wine pour.
With knives, human entities staaaaaaart to caaaaaaaarve.
Such haaaaaaaaarm would be so cruel!

Slice, shaaaaaaaaarp. . .a wish for a delish dish;
I think I like her not stuffed in stove,
first seasoned with a little saaaaaaalt and thyme.
This little beauty shouldn’t go under the knife.

Roasted for vittles: cusine aaaaaaaaaaarts—
fleshy lust: food desires.
Roasted for vittles: cusine aaaaaaaaaaarts.
Foodies can be rude.

Roasted for vittles: cuisine aaaaaaaaaaarts;
Post-the-chop: braised in the fire.
I will save her so she’ll be secure;
this female sheep won’t be skew[er]ed.

Blossoming: staaaaaaaart of feeling a new way:
renounce venery for venery; to jeune [agneau] fille from filet.
Paaaaaaaaaaall this urge in me; friends might impaaaaaaaaaart
this advice. Ah but pierced by Cupid’s daaaaaaart
now is my heaaaaaaaaaaaart!

(Spurn moo’s for baaaaaaa’s.)

Appealing’s her squealing, “Baaaaaaaa!”
I think I’ll take her to the baaaaaaaarn,
spin a bit of wool for yaaaaaaaaaarn. . .
a sweater on the loom.

So, I’m her maaaaaan,
hot for laaaaaaamikins,
slaaaaaaaam-baaaaaaammin’, aaaaaaaaaassisted by aaaaaaaapplication of laaaaaaaanolin.
It’s then I decide:
I’m gonna make her my bride!

(I’ll risk animaldversion [sic], caaaaaaalling her “wife.”)