Poetry for Goats

Everyone knows in the world of nature there is nothing quite like the Goat

Which can climb trees; dig holes talk to mice and can also sail a small Boat

And when it nests in the woods, which it does in early spring

Will build a stockade with high stone walls and a stage on which it will Sing

And they are often seen out at night dancing and playing a mean air guitar

Robbing banks and laughing at folk as they speed off in their getaway Car

O yes Goats are cunning and although I’m a bit of a fan

I will never get close as they can swallow a man

And most of them seem to be called Nanny or Billy

Which I have always thought was a bit silly

I mean a Nanny with a Beard

Is a little strange if not Weird

Which might be why folk say that they all end up in Hell

But quite frankly I think the reason for that

Is purely because of

Their Smell

Guess what. . . Remember what happened last night when I said I did not have any time to write and that I had to do it fast. . . . Well it has happened again tonight so for reasons only know to a strange Red Indian Spirit Guide with a warped sense of humour who has insisted that we write about Goats. This is a Poem about Goats, I am told that it should be a poem about buffalo, but have you ever tried to draw a buffalo when you are in a rush . . . . I bet not, and if you have then I for one want to know why, are you mad.

Anyway that is it, again I really dont know why this blog is full of poetry at present (OK OK its rubbish poetry but that is hardly the point).

Good night all . . . . . . . . AGAIN . . .