Whatever nourished the goat until it grew a beard will continue to sustain him.
Related quotes
The Life Of Wishes
May we understand the fine points of life,
Each being simpler than the one before.
This we continue until we have learnt the life,
This life condemns anyone who is smaller.
The life forces continue to sustain us,
The wishes of some are those wishes to sustain;
Any one wanting a simple act must learn,
That life does condone those who force.
poem by Naveed Akram
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If a beard were all, the goat would be the winner.
Lickle bit a ram goat have beard an' big dull noh have nun.
If the beard meant everything, the goat would preach.
Lilly billy-goat hab beard by big bull hab none.
Do not mistake a goat's beard for a fine stallion's tail.
If wisdom is measured by the size of the beard then the goat is a philosopher king.
If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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.
But you have to understand, my beard is so nasty. I mean, it's the only beard in the history of Western civilization that makes Bob Dylan's beard look good.
quote by Bill Walton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Goat And I
Each sunny day upon my way
A goat I pass;
He has a beard of silver grey,
A bell of brass.
And all the while I am in sight
He seems to muse,
And stares at me with all his might
And chews and chews.
Upon the hill so thymy sweet
With joy of Spring,
He hails me with a tiny bleat
Of welcoming.
Though half the globe is drenched with blood
And cities flare,
Contentedly he chews the cud
And does not care.
Oh gentle friend, I know not what
Your age may be,
But of my years I'd give the lot
Yet left to me,
To chew a thistle and not choke,
But bright of eye
Gaze at the old world-weary bloke
Who hobbles by.
Alas! though bards make verse sublime,
And lines to quote,
It takes a fool like me to rhyme
About a goat.
poem by Robert William Service
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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
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Manifesto
Blues are falling like showers of rain, but I dont feel like crying
Death himself is abroad this day, but I dont feel like dying
I learnt how to sustain myself
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
The enemy has the biggest tanks, and he sure knows how to use them
Our best, and only, chance, is to thoroughly confuse him
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
Her tongue was like a scythe and all her bones were haunted
A scapegoat for her life was all she ever wanted
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
Sir bedivere slept in a field, his armour strewn around him
Curled foetus-like beneath his shield, still weeping when we found him
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
I teetered on the edge of doom, degenerate and broken
She washed the blood out of my wounds, and spoke the great unspoken
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
His monstrous ego whipped and driven raged beneath his clothing
The complement he paid was given not with grace but loathing
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
Deliverance is at the gate with arms and gold in store
He apologises for being late, but I dont need him anymore
I learnt how to sustain myself
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
Scoured and stripped of all pretence, shorn of all illusion
I offer nothing in my defence, you can draw your own conclusions
I learnt how to sustain myself in storms
(trans. sean miller - [email protected])
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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Those who sit at the feast will continue to enjoy themselves even though the veil that separates them from the world of toiling reality below has been lifted by mass revolts and critics.
quote by Mary Ritter Beard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The(Her) Curse
Modesty outraged
perpetrators unmindful of pain
flame fighting to sustain.
None cares ofcourse
media demanding action
soon to be in oblivion.
Culprits roaming free
a goat bleats hoarse
law taking its own course
Victim curses the God,
“ be a girl incarnate
bear the cross, curse fate.”
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Pan
1.
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
2.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph of Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady.
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Double Villanelle
I.
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-loot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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