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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Related quotes
Where's My Billy Goat Gone To?
'Twas a birthday gift Miss Posie had
When she was nine, and twenty:
Not of gold -- Oh, no! -- nor gem, nor pearl,
Tho' he who gave had plenty.
'Twas a gift she took so much to heart,
Her neighbors thought her silly;
'Twas a B-A-B-Y (Baby) Goat,
A snow-white Baby Billy!
Pretty little Billy, Billy -- Oh!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
Take my home! Take my farm!
Yes, me too (if you want to);
But tell me! tell me!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
Pretty little Billy, Billy -- Oh!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
When she tried to teach him how to read,
Twas only "baa" he'd utter;
As she coaxed him then with cake and cream,
He'd slyly turn to butt her.
Yet he taught himself a thousand tricks,
And many a curious caper;
He would clamber to her chimney top,
And dine there on brown paper.
When the winter came she bought him shoes,
And flannel red she ordered
For a Sunday suit, with trousers cut
Four-legged and embroidered
On the steeple soon in tatters hung,
They set the parson snarling;
And he called that goat Be-el-ze-bub --
The one that she called Darling.
Pretty little Billy, Billy -- Oh!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
He was fond of roaming on the rocks,
With workmen in the quarry;
And if there he found their luncheon pails,
Not he but they were sorry.
For he raised aloft his iron brow,
Despite the foreman's clamor;
And the pails, he crushed them one by one,
As with a blacksmith's hammer.
Pretty little Billy, Billy -- Oh!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
Then for pails replaced and pails concealed
Each morning he went searching,
Till at last he found a shining prize,
Upon a boulder perching.
Had he read its label, "Dynamite!"
He might have known his blunder;
But he gave it one tremendous blow,
And then came peals of thunder!
Pretty little Billy, Billy -- Oh!
Where's my Billy Goat gone to?
poem by Henry Clay Work
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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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The more the billy goat stinks, the more the nanny goat loves him.
Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs
Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee;
To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it’s up to me
To give you some instruction like—a kind of Christmas tale—
So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”?
Well, whales is sheep I’ve never shore; I’ve never been to sea,
So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me;
But there’s a tale the Bible tells I fully understand,
About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land.
Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done,
They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run—
A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro,
The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago.
Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son,
And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run.
You know the way that boys grow up—there’s some that stick at home;
But any boy that’s worth his salt will roll his swag and roam.
So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers’ track
To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back;
You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow,
The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago.
Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock—that’s most uncommon clear—
For when he got to Laban’s Run, they made him overseer;
He didn’t ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay
To take the roan and strawberry calves—the same we’d take to-day.
The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that’s brindles), coarse and hard,
He branded them with Laban’s brand, in Old Man Laban’s yard;
So, when he’d done the station work for close on seven year,
Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban’s overseer.
It’s often so with overseers—I’ve seen the same thing done
By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run.
But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight,
And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate.
He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter’s hand in troth;
And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both;
You see, they weren’t particular about a wife or so—
No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago.
But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain,
Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again.
It’s strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam,
There comes a day when every man would like to make for home.
So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band,
To battle down the homeward track along the Overland—
It’s droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats.
I’ve travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats.
But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes)
When battling through the Philistines—selectors, I suppose—
He thought he’d have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job;
So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob.
He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way;
He couldn’t hurry lambing ewes—no more you could to-day—
And down the road, from run to run, his hand ’gainst every hand,
He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland.
The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out,
There isn’t any room at all for any kind of doubt.
It’s just a plain straightforward tale—a tale that lets you know
The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago.
It’s strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock;
You’d think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock,
The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread,
And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin’ on ahead.
The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night;
The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light;
The little kids that skipped about, the camels’ dead-slow tramp—
I wish I’d done a week or two in Old Man Jacob’s camp!
But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I’ll know
How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Saltbush Bill
Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey --
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains.
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains:
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black --
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight.
Yet the squatters' men, thought they haunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousand starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow.
They set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
The forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and cursed the Jackaroo; he cursed him, alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldly feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the well-grassed plain in the regular prize-ring style.
Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground, and he sparred for wind, and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill --
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and gave his opponent best.
So the new chum rode to the homestead straight, and told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell --
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again;
A week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Four Friends
Ernest was an elephant, a great big fellow,
Leonard was a lion with a six foot tail,
George was a goat, and his beard was yellow,
And James was a very small snail.
Leonard had a stall, and a great big strong one,
Earnest had a manger, and its walls were thick,
George found a pen, but I think it was the wrong one,
And James sat down on a brick
Earnest started trumpeting, and cracked his manger,
Leonard started roaring, and shivered his stall,
James gave a huffle of a snail in danger
And nobody heard him at all.
Earnest started trumpeting and raised such a rumpus,
Leonard started roaring and trying to kick,
James went on a journey with the goats new compass
And he reached the end of his brick.
Ernest was an elephant and very well intentioned,
Leonard was a lion with a brave new tail,
George was a goat, as I think I have mentioned,
but James was only a snail.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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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
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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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A man accused of stealing a goat should not entertain his visitors with goats meat.
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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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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Purled and Plain
A century ago or more,
a ship was wrecked in seas remote
and ‘mid the flotsam cast ashore
on limestone coast, was boy and goat.
On windswept isle of grass and scrub,
the goat was free from ship's confine,
The boy used frantic hands to grub
the remnants spat from sated brine.
Some bags of wheat, a box of tools,
he dug from sand to grant relief,
Though most the bounty lay in pools,
unreachable on distant reef.
He supplemented meagre fare
with bitter berries plucked from shrub,
And mutton birds entrapped with snare
were baked on fire, sparked by rub.
He ground the wheat to make a flour
and over stones, the dough was spread.
The fragrance drifted by the hour
and goat was drawn by fresh baked bread.
He only sought companionship
and never planned to eat the goat,
With winter's ‘proaching icy whip
he knew he'd need a cashmere coat.
Goat's lower jaw slid side to side
and yellow eyes had black slit stare,
With shears from toolbox opened wide
the boy slow clipped its shaggy hair.
It took him weeks to hand spin yarn
and fashion knitting pins from wood,
And further weeks to stitch and darn
the front to back with sleeves and hood.
The goat made charge as show of scorn
with flying hooves and lowered head,
The boy made threat to cut its horns
for buttons, but used wood instead.
The goat grew back its hair twice thick
as winter seized with frigid grip,
The boy donned coat and buttoned quick
when out of blue, appeared a ship.
The boy was saved but goat remained
a taste of freedom in its blood,
The boy looked back as vision waned,
the goat stood, placid, chewing cud.
The boy became a man of lore
who crafted tales and ably wrote,
And kept in some forgotten drawer
a wooden-buttoned goat hair coat.
poem by Diane Hine
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Lilly billy-goat hab beard by big bull hab none.
From The Anthology
I am not a farmer
and you are no animal
but some mornings
I have farming in my soul
and you, you know how to billy
just like a goat.
poem by Marc Di Martino
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The Parrot and the Billy-Goat
There were no romping children at Doctor Quibble's door;
Long past the silver wedding, no toys lay on the floor,
But to relieve her longings, to soothe her vain regrets,
His good wife had contrived to raise a family of pets.
What! a family of pets?
Yes! a family of pets;
His good wife had contrived to raise a family of pets.
A Spanish alto, Polly, who sang from early morn;
A bearded actor, Billy, who play'd the double horn;
A mimic man, Falsetto, who scaled the treble staff,
And climb'd the ledger lines above, and made the people laugh.
What! and made the people laugh?
Yes! and made the people laugh;
And climb'd the ledger lines above, and made the people laugh.
Remark'd the joking Doctor: "My dear, you ought to get
Another one -- a basso -- and have a full quartette."
She took his words in earnest, nor thought of ridicule;
She bargain'd from a circus man a educated mule.
What! an educated mule?
Yes! an educated mule;
She bargain'd from a circus man a educated mule.
Then said the Doctor gravely: "My dear, you should engage
That circus man as tutor, to fit them for the stage;
To cultivate their voices, and train them up by rule --
The parrot and the billy goat, the monkey and the mule."
What! the monkey and the mule?
Yes! the monkey and the mule;
The parrot and the billy goat, the monkey and the mule.
Three weary weeks she waited, and then the job was done;
Their education finish'd, their tutor's fortune won.
Tho' some folks thought she carried her husband's joke too far,
She organized a trav'ling troupe, each pet to be a star.
What! each pet to be a star?
Yes! each pet to be a star;
She organized a trav'ling troupe, each pet to be a star.
She sold a thousand tickets upon the opening night;
But when the curtain lifted, 'twas on a sorry sight:
The bearded actor Billy devoured a music roll;
Then burst the big bass drum, and went headforemost thro' the hole.
What! headforemost through the hole?
Yes! headforemost through the hole;
He burst the big bass drum, and went headforemost thro' the hole!
Falsetto snatched the turban which Madame Polly wore;
Its green and scarlet feathers he scattered on the floor.
The Madame swore in Spanish, her eyes suffused with tears;
And, flying to the basso's head, she hid behind his ears.
What! she hid behind his ears?
Yes! she hid behind his ears;
And flying to the basso's head, she hid behind his ears.
Began then B. Profundo his great fantastic dance;
The footlights flew like rockets, the audience in advance.
And so they changed the programme, and broke the golden rule
The parrot and the billy-goat, the monkey and the mule.
What! the monkey and he mule?
Yes! the monkey and he mule;
The parrot and the billy-goat, the monkey and the mule.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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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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The Ballad Of Conley And Billy (The Proof's In The Pickin')
Screamn' whitewall tires and a guitar by his side
Billy's got the fever as he rolls on thru the night
Some were born to listen, some were born to play
He was lightning on the highstrings and thunder on the bass
Chorus
He could play it high, he could play it low
He could make it cry, he could make it moan
He knows when push comes to shove
the proof's in the pickin'
In a smoky little tavern just off of Bourbon Street
Tobacco stained fingers waited on the down beat
Conley was the master, the undisputed king
He'd ruled the town for thirty years
with an army of six strings
Chorus
Sometimes after midnight Billy drives through New Orleans
Straight to the French Quarter there's a man he has to see
The music is a raging like a city that's on fire
Billy felt just like an altar boy at the feet of a higher power
Conley watched as Billy walked across the room
Opened his case and started a tune
The whole club was silent and the lights were turned down low
Billy stepped up on the stage and Conley whispered Go son, go
Chorus
Conley held his hand up, no one made a sound
And he handed Bill his old archtop and stepped into the crowd
Billy played it soft, Billy played it sad
Then he made it talk and in came the band
Soon the room was shaking before Billy's wall of sound
And just a block off Bourbon Street, a new king's been crowned.
Chorus
song performed by by Diamond Rio
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
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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