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The more the billy goat stinks, the more the nanny goat loves him.
Nanny-goat neber ?cratch him back till him see wall.
For My Dog Amber Who Died A Year Ago
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
Gonna catch that freesby,
then bring it right back to you.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you feed me steak, ill jump in
the pool.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you let me sleep in your bed,
ill protect you from demons and
ghost.
poem by David Gerardino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Belly rub
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
Gonna catch that freesby,
then bring it right back to you.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you feed me steak, ill jump in
the pool.
Belly rub,
belly rub,
begs my dog.
if you let me sleep in your bed,
ill protect you from demons and
ghost.
poem by David Gerardino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If the goat rejects the grass, its belly is full.
Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped,
III
Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped,
Peleus on Thetis stares.
Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid,
Love has blinded him with tears;
But Thetis' belly listens.
Down the mountain walls
From where pan's cavern is
Intolerable music falls.
Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,
Belly, shoulder, bum,
Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrs
Copulate in the foam.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped
III
Slim adolescence that a nymph has stripped,
Peleus on Thetis stares.
Her limbs are delicate as an eyelid,
Love has blinded him with tears;
But Thetis' belly listens.
Down the mountain walls
From where pan's cavern is
Intolerable music falls.
Foul goat-head, brutal arm appear,
Belly, shoulder, bum,
Flash fishlike; nymphs and satyrs
Copulate in the foam.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I've given birth to five babies and I breastfed every single one of these babies. To think that government has to go out and buy my breast pump for my babies. You wanna talk about the nanny state? I think we just got the new definition of a nanny.
quote by Michele Bachmann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bo Diddley
Bo diddley called a nanny goat
To make his pretty baby a sunday coat
Bo diddley called a bear cat
To make his pretty baby a sunday hat
Hey, bo diddley,
Hey, bo diddley, yeah!
Hey, bo diddley, baby,
Hey, bo diddley.
Two, two, three I was alone
Went to my baby when I get home
Tell my baby the nights away
Come on baby feel like that
Said hey, bo diddley,
Hey, bo diddley, yeah!
Hey, bo diddley, baby,
Hey, bo diddley.
Bo diddley bought a diamond ring
Take it to my baby most anything
Baby, baby, baby, all right
I get home she nearly gone.
Hey, bo diddley
Hey, bo diddley, yeah!
Hey, bo diddley, babe,
Hey, bo diddley.
Bo diddley called a bear cat
To make his pretty baby a sunday hat
Bo diddley called a nanny goat
To make his pretty baby a sunday coat
Hey, bo diddley,
Hey, bo diddley, yeah!
Hey, bo diddley, babe,
Hey, bo diddley!
Baby, baby, baby, come on now!
Want you to know you can feel me darlin!
Baby, baby, baby, please come home now,
Dont know what Im gonna do with mona.
Hey, bo diddley,
Hey, bo diddley, yeah!
Hey, bo diddley, babe,
Hey, bo diddley!
Hey, bo diddley!
Hey, bo diddley!
Hey, bo diddley!
Hey, bo diddley!
song performed by by Janis Joplin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She looks fatten to her fancy dress
Why did you give her an expensive dress?
This born slim girl floats in the Baroness's grand anniversary party.
Perhaps she may a Nanny in the Manor.
The infant cries pathetically instead of the Nanny's inner cry.
She smiles to the strangers showing her fancy dress.
Nobody knows her birthday that falls today.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Brownie
In a corner of the bedroom is a great big curtain,
Someone lives behind it, but I don't know who;
I think it is a Brownie, but I'm not quite certain.
(Nanny isn't certain, too.)
I looked behind the curtain, but he went so quickly -
Brownies never wait to say, "How do you do?"
They wriggle off at once because they're all so tickly
(Nanny says they're tickly too.)
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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.
Goat Hill
Goat Hill
Walking out the door that man told me to go to hell
My son asked mommy where’s Goat Hill
I said I don’t know son it must be through the valley
My son said mommy lets go there
Up to goat hill
I bet it’s on top of the mountain
I bet there is waterfalls, birds, trees, pretty flowers for all the butterflies and honey bees
I said son if we could I’m sure we would
Most definitely go up to goat hill
I’m not ever going to take you where that man said to go
That place is an internal melting pot
And its way to hot
There’s no mountains with snow on top
No waterfalls trees birds butterflies or honey bees in the place that man said to go
Son I know you are good
Some day together I believe we will find the place called Goat Hill
You found somewhere in your mind
Where life is gentle and Kind
Everyday and every night all the time
Son I bet up on Goat Hill we will only see Gods will being done by the Father and the Son
poem by E.Marie AldrichCreasy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Louisa And Nanny
“Come on, ” said Louisa to Nanny,
“let’s go for a walk before it gets too hot.”
So off they went towards the forest,
on a path they had trodden a lot.
Without giving a thought about the season
and the beginning of the monsoon.
They walked and talked for an hour
on that pleasant early afternoon.
Without warning the heavens opened
and it poured with driving rain.
A ferocious gust of wind blew them
towards the dense bamboo cane.
It came unexpectedly from nowhere
its ferocity almost swept them off their feet.
Holding onto each other they found shelter
behind a huge tree trunk of teak.
Lightening was flashing continually
in the sky and all around.
A bolt of lightening stuck a nearby tree,
bringing it crashing down.
The branches barely missed them
as the storm continued to rage.
The torrential rain never paused for a second
as they peered through the rainy haze.
They could barely hear each other
above the sound of thunder, lightening, and rain.
The wind suddenly stopped its cruel intensity,
it was possible to see a short distance again.
Because the whole landscape looked different,
Louisa asked, “Which way should we go? ”
“I’ve lost my bearings completely, ” said Nanny,
“in fact I really don’t know.”
As they considered their best options
on the direction they must take.
They simultaneously wiped their eyes
to make sure of no mistake.
Nanny couldn’t believe what she was seeing,
a pregnant woman standing by the fallen tree.
She stood motionless for a minute and said,
“Tell me Louisa, is that a woman that I can see? ”
“I’m sorry Nanny, I can’t see anyone,
but it is still difficult to see.
The lightening is creating shadows,
making things appear as they shouldn’t be.
As soon as they wiped the rain from their eyes
they were filled with rain once again.
“I suppose it could have been a bush, ” said Nanny,
but the woman was still there in the pouring rain.
Their only way out from their hemmed in position
was pass the woman who began to beckoned them.
Nanny couldn’t believe that Louisa couldn’t see her,
and told her that the woman was beckoning them on.
Again she asked Louisa if she could see the woman,
and again she said that she could not.
The woman in white indicated them to follow her,
and Nanny told Louisa the situation they had got.
“If there’s a way out of here lets follow, ” said Louisa.
Nanny took her hand and they followed the woman.
Weaving in and out, over and under the fallen trees,
she led them back to Louisa’s home in the sun.
The woman just disappeared leaving no signs of a storm.
On reflection Nanny realised she’d seen the woman before,
but what her brain relayed to her didn’t make sense,
and she couldn’t tell Louisa that she was the woman she saw.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Pumpkin grows in Midwife's yard
Her mother is a midwife
and she is a nanny to her far relative.
He collects pumpkins hastily for the sunday fair.
Do you think a street vendor sees pleasant dreams?
Anyhow please do not get surprised
if a street vendor marries a nanny
and she delivers precious children safely
as her mother knows the job perfectly.
Still the pumpkins grow in the yard
and the vendor collects them without any bargaining.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bongaloo
'What is a Bongaloo, Daddy?'
'A Bongaloo, Son,' said I,
'Is a tall bag of cheese
Plus a Chinaman's knees
And the leg of a nanny goat's eye.'
'How strange is a Bongaloo, Daddy?'
'As strange as strange,' I replied.
'When the sun's in the West
It appears in a vest
Sailing out with the noonday tide.'
'What shape is a Bongaloo, Daddy?'
'The shape, my Son, I'll explain:
It's tall round the nose
Which continually grows
In the general direction of Spain.'
'Are you sure there's a Bongaloo, Daddy?'
'Am I sure, my Son?' said I.
'Why, I've seen it, not quite
On a dark sunny night
Do you think that I'd tell you a lie?
poem by Spike Milligan
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What for? If only the goat can tell.
O! The silly goat could have been a dove
White and meek
Soundless in the journey to air
Dove to another dove
Satisfied from among its likes
The horns could have been feathers
In a bird’s body
Another completing dove could have waited
Only if the silly goat knew
The transfiguration of its feet to claw
Its whiskers to beak
The goat’s life would have been complete
And fulfilled
But this the silly goat will never know
& learn and untie
& solve the crazy knot
That it has never untangled
Never has he learned from all the ages
Of his grass life
The seeds that the dove peck
And keep on its throat down to its guts
Its tummy
The goat stays
In the open field
Preoccupied with grass
And grass alone
Abiding by the rules of his master
Imprisoned in its cage
To the rules of their games
Suffering
But never understands the same
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forgiven
I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.
I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day ...
And Nanny let my beetle out -
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out -
She went and let my beetle out -
And Beetle ran away.
She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,
She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a match.
She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn't mind,
As there's lots and lots of beetles which she's certain we could find,
If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid -
And we'd get another match-box and write BEETLE on the lid.
We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,
And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,
And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:
'A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!'
It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be Me,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought to say:
'I'm very very sorry that I tried to run away.'
And Nanny's very sorry too for you-know-what-she-did,
And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,
So Nan and Me are friends, because it's difficult to catch
An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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