The first time this goat fainted
I wanted to pack him in a crate
& ship him back home for his safety.
It’s hard as hell to watch him
lying on his back
with his stiff legs in the air
& he faints a lot;
barking dogs, slamming doors,
starting up the ol’ John Deere.
If I could speak goat,
I’d be tempted to tell him
he’s not in Tennessee.
But then again, if I do,
I’ll likely have to listen
to him go on & on about
his great, great, granddaddy
coming to America all the way
from Nova Scotia. Bleat, bleat.
Looking at him,
it’s no surprise if he falls over again
telling me about the lost tribe
of Bible thumpers
confessing their sins to him
before running him off.
It’s his eyes,
his Marty Feldman eyes,
that are so unsettling.
Really, what can I say?
I’m not a goat whisperer,
but my gut tells me
it’s not a good idea to tell him
he’s in Texas, or he’ll jump around
& fall over all the more.
