He has no house, he has no shack,
Just shaggy hair upon his back
That hangs from cranium to hoof –
An absolutely perfect roof
To shelter him from winter chills
Amongst the Himalayan hills.
Tibetans ride upon the backs
Of generous and gentle yaks
Who offer milk; their hair for rope,
Their flesh for meat, their fat for soap,
And listen as the valley swells
In irony to temple bells
That toll that karmic law decrees
They will return as Red Chinese.
GUS FERGUSON