A man accused of stealing a goat should not entertain his visitors with goats meat.
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Christmas Day At The Bunkhouse (Fun Poem 47)
It was Christmas day at the bunkhouse
everyone had sat down for a meal
when through the door walked a goat.
He stood and looked around,
then continued to eat an artichoke.
When he finished he sat and asked for a drink,
someone got up and gave him a bowel of water.
The goat looked at the offering with disgust.
Ain’t you got anything stronger that that?
Of course, we have, came the reply.
Well pour me out some the goats said,
and put some mud in my eye.
Someone had some scotch whiskey
and took the bottle out,
then gave the goat a dram.
The goat sniffed it, and then downed it
all in one swallow.
He then asked for more
saying his legs were still hollow.
Another dram was poured
and everyone was amazed to see,
an upside down goat
drinking a bottle of scotch whiskey.
The goat drank all day
and it drank all night.
The lights went out
and the old goat went to sleep.
He dreamed of himself
floating out the door
and all the way to heaven,
but when he got there,
St Peter wouldn’t let him in.
He said God will not tolerate
any drunken old goats here,
so you had better go back
and sleep it off, Billy.
Then put up a sign on the door.
No drunken old goats allowed,
signed by you know who.
You could always try
beneath the basement floor
he’ll greet you with a smile
and a shovel,
even make you hot and warm.
The moral of this story
whether you’re a goat or a man.
Don’t drink too much;
you could end up
jumping from the frying pan
and straight into the fire,
the one that they keep burning
permanently beneath the basement floor.
poem by David Harris
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Dark Meat Of Darkness
Discover a land so shadowed with darkness,
It spreads like dark flowers around the land.
The reality is bitter, falling away like silver has dropped
Into a chasm to be rebuilt as gold.
Retrieve this gold, when the goats of meat
Are cooked above a burning fire,
And then the gold can be filling the meat
So that it is worth more to eat.
To eat the gold, you must defeat
Shadows of the land, and the goats
Of meat have clung to the land then,
And after this you have paid for the good.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Billy-Goat Overland
Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid,
I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made,
For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,
We started away with a thousand goats, on the billy-goat overland.
There wasn't a fence that'd hold the mob, or keep 'em from their desires;
They skipped along the top of the posts and cake-walked on the wires.
And where the lanes had been stripped of grass and the paddocks were nice and green,
The goats they travelled outside the lanes and we rode in between.
The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,
Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:
And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand
And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.
We found we were hundreds over strength when we counted out the mob;
And they put us in jail for a crowd of theives that travelled to steal and rob:
For every goat between here and Bourke, when he scented our spicy band,
Had left his home and his work to join in the billy-goat overland.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Visitor Clever Theme Words
my visitors are voices clever words
my visitors arrive anywhere anytime
my visitors script film opera words
my visitors mirror parody depths mime
my visitors initiate connect life dots
my visitors represent patterns to define
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Goat
Lots of goat for dinner
Is all had on a skewer,
My kingdom has survived,
The lids of your eyes
Are lifted and they see
The meat of the kings
In consumption.
Force the goat to be eaten
By converting the king
To your crevice.
Food has might,
Food is the whim of our land.
We ghosts are relaxed tonight,
From the worry of the horror,
Frightened again by the double,
Load the goat into the pot and eat.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Third Degree
(by eddie boyd and willie dixon)
Got me accused of peeping, I cant see a thing.
Got me accused of petting, I cant even raise my hand.
Bad luck, bad luck is killing me.
Well I just cant stand no more of this third degree.
Got me accused of murder, I aint harmed a man.
Got me accused of forgery, I cant even write my name.
Chorus
Got me accused of taxes, I aint got a dime.
Got me accused of children, and aint nary one of them was mine.
Chorus
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Funny
i am funny
i cry upon hearing the pleas
of the goats
transported from the
market to the
slaughterhouse
it is ridiculous
as others think of the
goat meat well spiced
for their next
sumptuous dinner
i am funny
thinking about the mass killing
of natives in the south
as other still think of the gain
on the next delivery of
guns and ammunition
i am not just funny
i am crazy
and they are not ridiculous
they are serious
for wars to come and shall never end
for the violence they create
so they may have all the profits
and gain
reality is not funny
war is a serious business
the government is crazy
worshiping a master
this great puppeteer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Meat Ball
(l. singer-h.zaret)
The little man walked up and down
To find an eating place in town
He read the menu through and through
To see what fifteen cents could do
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
He told the waiter near at hand
A simple dinner he had planned
The guests were startled one and all to hear
That waiter loudly call
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, this here gent wants one meat ball
Little man felt very bad
One meat ball was all he had
And in his dreams he hears that call
Ya gets no bread with one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, you get no bread with one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
All he could afford was one meat ball
One meat ball
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Goat Convention
The goats held a convention.
“We want liberation! ”
They bleated boldly.
“I want to hear concrete suggestions”,
Advised the chairman gently.
“And tabula rasa”, he added.
The result, however,
Was only a long and silent pause.
Eventually though one goat rose
To say something.
He cleared his throat
And valiantly addressed the assembly:
“Our liberation and the struggle
To achieve equal rights go hand in hand.
So, in view of the fact
That men can wear goatees,
I propose that we goats also start
To wear manly fashioned beards”.
poem by Paul Hartal
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For Molly, Concerning God
Is God the one who eats the meat
off the bones of dead people?
-Molly Miranda Jong-Fast, age 3 1/2
God is the one,
Molly,
whether we call him
Him,
or Her,
treeform or spewing
volcano,
Vesuvius or vulva,
penis-rock,
or reindeer-on-cave-wall,
God is the one
who eats
our meat,
Molly,
& we yield
our meat
up willingly.
Meat is our
element,
meat is our
lesson.
When our bodies fill
with each other,
when our blood swells
in our organs
aching for another,
body of meat,
heart of meat,
soul of meat,
we are only doing
what God wants
us to—
meat joining meat
to become insubstantial air,
meat fusing
with meat
to make
a small wonder
like you.
The wonder of you
is that you push
our questions
along into
the future—
so that I know
again
the wonder of meat
through you,
the wonder of meat
turning to philosophy,
the wonder of meat
transubstantiated
into poetry,
the wonder of
sky-blue meat
in your roundest eyes,
the wonder of
dawn-colored meat
in your cheeks & palms,
the wonder of meat
becoming
air.
You
are my theorem,
my proof,
my meaty metaphysics,
my little questioner,
my small Socrates
of the nursery-schoolyard.
To think that
such wonder
can come from meat!
Well then,
if God is hungry—
let Him eat,
let Her eat.
poem by Erica Jong
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The Wildy Ones
The sheep are in the silver wood,
The cows are in the broom;
The goats are in the wild mountain
And won't be home by noon.
My mother sang that olden tune
Most every night,
And to her newest she would croon
By candle light;
While cuddling in the velvet gloom
I'd dream of cows
That sought each dawn 'mid golden broom
To gently browse.
Or I would glimpse the silver wood,
The birchen glade,
Where pearly sheep in quiet mood
Cropped unafraid;
But how I loved in lapsing drowse
The mountain wild!
The goats were more than sheep and cows
To one wee child.
For cows and sheep are shelter-wise,
And love the lea;
While goats have starlight in their eyes,
In cragland free . . .
And now on edge of endless sleep
Wryly I note
How less I'm kin to kine and sheep
Than rebel goat!
poem by Robert William Service
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January's goat meat is so good it even spoils the goatherd.
Sacrifice
Nothing has been occupying my minds,
I have all the requirements for them to be classed as two,
For I have double-vision as to the religion of my thought,
I am not guilty and I have no stigma,
Merely the goat has been slain by its owner
For the worn garment, and the delicious meat it endows.
What is century after century of sacrifice when a life has been
Rectified for all the days in it?
Why do we keep lunar years for these praises and festivals
When every year seemed to be carried?
Where is my food, O mother! Why does the goat hurt when it is dissected?
It is a child that speaks hostility and not a stranger can even desire this speech.
We can sacrifice all we want, when we want, and however we want
As long as rivers and oceans shall curve with water.
Water makes it abundantly clear, like the blood that wreaks from the neck
Of a dead goat. Always the sacrifice is made on this time in the calendar.
poem by Naveed Akram
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There once was a cad from Dumfries
Accused of stealing some geese,
He was in a tight spot
But he cared not a jot
As he turned round and blamed his poor niece.
(Written Sept 2012)
quote by by John Carter Brown
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Goddess of the Goats
Full moon high in the sky
fog coming in
breaking like waves
against the hills and fences
Rudder was crying
baaing her silly head off
because
she couldn't find her baby
at 3am
and I
Goddess of the goats
get up from my warm bed
not that it mattered
since I was awake anyway
in my flannell pj's and rubber boots
find the baby
sleeping under what's left
of the catapah tree
a tiny little creature
smaller than the big ginger cat
who guards the farm
against invasions of rodents
when he feels the urge
I take the baby to Rudder
who sniffs it and decides
yes, this is my baby
you may go away now human
Fog rolls in
while in the shrine
erected in the hallow
of the one tree
left standing
candles burn down
smoke and fog uniting
Smoke and fog
moonlight on the fields
white goats shining in moonglow
dancing hooves in the night
whip-poor-will song
with cricket harmony
And I
Goddess of the Goats
with the knowlege
that all my goat girls
and their babies
are safe
can go back to bed
poem by Maggie DeMay
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Holiday meals
Here's a poem that will get your goat
But my goat ate my poem.
I'll get him for that
He ate all that i wrote.
I wrote such wounderous words
And all he does is burp
It's absurd.
Now all I can do
Is not let him get my goat
The words that I wrote
Were hastey and few
The goat that I had made such a great stew.
Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks
As a child I was given the gift to entertain you.
But through blood I inherited a life that could destroy you.
I drink all day. I smoke all day. Ive done it all but tap
The vein.
These hard lines and sunken cheeks are text book reasons
All these christians come alive and try to sell you
My soul for a goat, yet Ill outlive the old.
You know its bad, some may say sad, a hangover is
Inspiration. like a junkie I hurt for it. a bad trip, the
Emptiness. I never sleep, or always sleep a lack of
Fulfillment to me is me. the big picture.
These hard lines and sunken cheeks are part of
What the christians mean to immortalize my situation.
My soul for a goat. yet Ill outlive the old.
Embrace some religion. to get close to some
Undivine ejaculation point.
Simply to thy ghost I cling.
Simply to thy ghost I reject.
Simply to thy ghost I give spit.
Tempter, tempting, tempt me. molest me. you know that ill
Submit. for this is my weakness and it saves me from relationships
With those christians. you know theyll sell you my soul
For a goat. yet Ill outlive the old.
song performed by by Pantera
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Temple And City Were Destroyed In 70 A.D.!
“And from the assembly of the sons of Israel he should take two male kids of the goats for a sin offering and one ram as a burnt offering” Leviticus 16: 5
The high priest must draw lots over the two goats
one lot for ADONAI and the other lot for Azazel.
The high priest must present the goat over whose
lot fell to ADONAI as a sin offering. But the goat
whose lot fell to Azazel should be stood alive before
ADONAI to make atonement for it, by sending it
away into the desert for Azazel.
to cast the lots upon
the two male kid goats
were two lot stones
one white and one black
upon the white stone was written the words
“For the Lord”
upon the black stone was written the words “For Azazal”
Azazal the chosen goat
that was to be sent away
the goat to be banished
these two symbolic stones were
placed at time of the lot choosing
in a container and priest shaken
then the high priest without looking must choose the sin offering he must put in his right hand inside
and draw out one of the two lots!
The Babylonian Talmud records that for over two hundred years before
the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ in 30 A.D.
the chosen first stone
to appear in the
lot grasped right hand
of the high priest fluctuated arbitrarily
between the white
and black stone
each year unpredictably
as God selected the most perfect
goat to be slain
or released for atonement
of sins on behalf
of all the Jewish people!
How strange miraculous
that beginning with Messiah prophisized
Day of Atonement in 30 A.D.
the year of the death
and resurrection
of our Lord Jesus Christ
that the black lot stone appeared in the right
hand of the high priest
for the next 39 years unfailingly!
What are the chances of that?
The chances of the black lot stone
“For Azazal”
appearing 40 consecutive times in the right hand of the high priest is over
a trillion to one according
to the odds of numerical probability how bizarre!
Was the constant appearance of the black stone in the right
hand of the high priest a sign?
Was it a sign of our God's displeasure with the House of Judah a warning to repent?
What if anything happened after forty years of a black lot stone appearing as continuous warning
in the right hand of the high priest?
Fulfillment of the scary prophetic
black lot stone came when Jerusalem
and Holy Temple were destroyed in
70 A. D. by the Roman Empire. Titus began the siege on April14th
70A.D. exactly forty years to the
day after Christ’s crucifixion on April14th 30 A.D. at Golgotha! Where Christ died for thee and me.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
See also Forty Years Of Warning and The Fall Of The Temple In 70 A.D.!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Demons 2
we like to sin
we like to think that when we sin
it is not us that sin
but some demons pushing us to make the sins
even in sinning we need some escape goats
the demons made me do it
damn these demons in my head!
i am innocent
the demons pushed me to do the sins i do
they are so many of them
these damn demons in my head
and i am just alone
(my sweet conscience
implanted by God)
these damn demons
they push me on the dead-end edge where i can do nothing but sin
nice, human logic,
less responsibility for sinning because someone did the sinning for you
not me,
when i sin, i sin alone, i sin myself, and there is no escape goat to blame
there are no horns, no goats, no snakes handing me the apple to bite,
no adam no eve no cains or abels no genetics involved in here
i have sinned through my own fault.in my own fault,
in what i think, in what i do, in what i have failed to do,
in what i have failed to think,
and i ask all the angels and saints to help me get away from
my own faults, my own and nothing but my own
this sinning
my own responsibility and i ask my God to forgive me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Latest Invention
A mother-hen with twelve chicks,
A goat with two baby-goats,
A parrot confined in the cage,
An infant in the cradle with a baby doll,
And an old man and woman
These were all
Twenty one terrorists who were killed
Yesterday by a drone,
Yes; the same drone: the latest invention.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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