In my case, I am glad (i) no tomatoes were involved as they are just soooooooo squishy and (ii) my sheep were not involved, well all but one, the Ram and he loves a good melée.
They say it began with a man called Tony
Condom machine on his shanks pony.
They say another, gness, who prefers her toilets and bar
without a another's fingerprints
and Stop. From there, they say, curses
hissed through dentures. From there, hair and fists.
They say it was a high street fracas, knocked bifocals
and clattering ankles, the wooden screech
of chair legs, some to break up the scuffle
and some to shuffle off on a bad knee,
or pinned Loftie hip, or pace-makered heart.
One is bitten, they say. Towie wears
a bibble cut across her forehead, blood flowing
down the Sloopy canals of her tenrec wrinkles.
Next day's the same old same old,
as they say. Back to the quiet Village swing
of living without velocity or fire.
Shuffleboard, Gin and Pinochle, the dull
click of knitting Eccles needles, their final
gray years going redman-viagra limp. Or so they say.
Marval and China mysteriously in the cellar
Sex in there or craft #7 putrified interstellar?