But for a Goat

A goat in my kitchen.

Once a goat whose name was Billy
ambled ‘cross my kitchen floor.
And I know it may sound silly,
but he came for fish and more.
How he got in was a riddle,
a mystery like Twilight Zone.
Yet it’s really unimportant,
since he butted my shinbone.

I was sitting at the table
with my fried fish and my fries.
Through the back door he was able,
(guess goat Billy behaved wise.)
I offered fries yet Billy fumed,
he snorted as he clopped the floor.
His butt on me was one clear sign;
he merely wanted fish and more.

  (No he didn’t want potatoes,
    nor was salad a desire.
    The long for cod was in his face;
    beady eyes intense with fire.
    When I tried a cup of coleslaw,
    that for Billy remained cutting.
    So he told me, plain and simple,
    with abrupt aggressive butting.)

With my femur a full feature
and a bruise upon my shin,
I relented to the creature;
headstrong goats are sure to win.
I saw him gulp the fish with glee
and eyed a grin of goat delight.
His snorting sounded like a laugh--
but for a goat, I dined all right.


32 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
January 15, 2014