A Man and His Goat
In this gallant democracy
Where endeavours are proven free
A man's love surpasses boundaries
Including interspecies sprees
For underneath a country sun
Lived poor Tommy Michael John
Who was raised in isolation
Taught the trade of agriculture
Quite intelligent but awkward
With a tenant for introversion
He never had a single friend
Unless a tail was it conclusion
There was Elmer the potty pig
Plus Stuart the klutzy rooster
With Matilda the bovine cow
And Pamela the Foxy Goat
And yes she was a foxy gal
With a coat of auburn locks
Elegantly trimmed and arranged
In semblance of a Great Dane
One day they were in the barn
Michael John was feeding her grass
Then she looked in his furtive eyes
And then he saw their souls were tied
It began in simple courtship
Little trips around the county
Legs and hooves alone the pastures
Catching starlight after midnight
They even shared an apple tree
Where the grass was long and green
She would eat her heart away
As he petted her bushy mane
He loves the way she smells like hay
Or a barn in mulch on a rainy day
And when he sees her in the dawn
He knows the purpose in his world
Is milked with carful tenderness
Acquired from active breast
Call it cooperative selection
Otherwise it's a strange conclusion
Now old Tommy Michael John
Is a happier man on earth
He has found something that's special
Which is foreign to some people
Companionship of loyalty
That even shares an H.D. TV
For nothing will come between
A man and his favourite goat
poem by Kevin Patrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Kentucky Derby
(for Smarty Jones)
horse-naked
a barn sleeper
he can swim in the sun, in a barn
he loafs in an apple yard,
snapping the pea grass
as blossoms inhale and exhale kentucky spring
his friend the goat is
patiently
trimming the grass beneath
today is saturday
steel strips are winged to his toes
tiny shields
he can carry a man running
his tail is a whisper trail
in sharp silk clothing
a fearless man holds on
still cropping the slender useless whip
a man and a race-horse in a jagged steady burst
pushing through the vortex
is this the vortex of horse speed?
a horse in a puff
in a dreamscape a puff
can he see the dawn coming?
he's fast!
on his toes and
he's passed us!
poem by Jimi Doyle
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Growing Up
Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail;
And his mother didn't know him as he wept upon a log,
For he wasn't Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lines in Praise of Tommy Atkins
Success to Tommy Atkins, he's a very brave man,
And to deny it there's few people can;
And to face his foreign foes he's never afraid,
Therefore he's not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said.
No, he's paid by our Government, and is worthy of his hire;
And from our shores in time of war he makes our foes retire,
He doesn't need to beg; no, nothing so low;
No, he considers it more honourable to face a foreign foe.
No, he's not a beggar, he's a more useful man,
And, as Shakespeare has said, his life's but a span;
And at the cannon's mouth he seeks for reputation,
He doesn't go from door to door seeking a donation.
Oh, think of Tommy Atkins when from home far away,
Lying on the battlefield, earth's cold clay;
And a stone or his knapsack pillowing his head,
And his comrades lying near by him wounded and dead.
And while lying there, poor fellow, he thinks of his wife at home,
And his heart bleeds at the thought, and he does moan;
And down his cheek flows many a silent tear,
When he thinks of his friends and children dear.
Kind Christians, think of him when far, far away,
Fighting for his Queen and Country without dismay;
May God protect him wherever he goes,
And give him strength to conqner his foes.
To call a soldier a beggar is a very degrading name,
And in my opinion it's a very great shame;
And the man that calls him a beggar is not the soldier's friend,
And no sensible soldier should on him depend.
A soldier is a man that ought to be respected,
And by his country shouldn't be neglected;
For he fights our foreign foes, and in danger of his life,
Leaving behind him his relatives and his dear wife.
Then hurrah for Tommy Atkins, he's the people's friend,
Because when foreign foes assail us he does us defend;
He is not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said,
No, he doesn't need to beg, he lives by his trade.
And in conclusion I will say,
Don't forget his wife and children when he's far away;
But try and help them all you can,
For remember Tommy Atkins is a very useful man.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dear John
Written by tommy shaw
Lead vocals by tommy shaw
Dear john I knew you
About as well as anyone
We were the wild ones
So sure those days would never end
Now theyre only memories my friend
Dear john Ill see you
Some day again
I swear I saw you
On a crowded street today
I almost called your name
Thinking of all those yesterdays
Heaven help me
How I miss my friend
Dear john Ill see you
Some day again
Therell be a celebration
When all will be revealed
Well have a reunion
High on a hill
Dear john how are you
God know its heaven where you are
Find some peace there
May it never end
Dear john my heart knows
Well meet again
Dear john Ill see you....
Some day again
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brothers John And Tommy
John my older brother lives in a southern state
Tommy is the youngest is still in
the Land Of 1,000 Lakes.
John used to play practical jokes
on me- he would laugh and poke.
John and Tommy did hide a toy character of mine
my sister Lisa grabbed it from Tommy in the nick of time.
Tommy of course reacted with funny words
he was family clown, he wasn't a nerd.
Tommy used to have bright pink hair
he wore droopy pants with a big wide flair.
John is a business man who did succeed
he used to live in New Jersey now he has a family.
Tommy one day will have a child-
my niece or nephew will be like him- kind of wild.
John has girls that are sweet and smart
they are gracious girls with kind hearts.
Nice to have brothers that can make you laugh
just as long as it's not about you having gas.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 9,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Foxy Lady
Foxy
Foxy
You know youre a cute little heartbreaker
Foxy
You know youre a sweet little lovemaker
Foxy
I wanna take you home
I wont do you no harm, no
Youve got to be all mine, all mine
Ooh, foxy lady
I see you, heh, on down on the scene
Foxy
You make me wanna get up and scream
Foxy
Ah, baby listen now
Ive made up my mind
Im tired of wasting all my precious time
Youve got to be all mine, all mine
Foxy lady
Here I come
Im gonna take you home
I wont do you no harm, no
Youve got to be all mine, all mine
Here I come
Im comin to get ya
Foxy lady
You look so good
Yeah, foxy
Yeah, give us some
Foxy
Yeah, get it, babe
You make me feel like
Feel like sayin foxy
Foxy
Foxy lady
Foxy lady
song performed by by Jimi Hendrix
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brother John And Tommy
John my older brother lives in a southern state
Tommy is the youngest is still in the Land of The 1,000 Lakes.
John used to play practical jokes
on me- he would laugh and poke.
John and Tommy did hide a toy character of mine
my sister Lisa grabbed it from Tommy in the nick of time.
Tommy of course reacted with funny words
he was family clown, he wasn't a nerd.
Tommy used to have bright purple hair
he wore droopy pants with a big wide flair.
John is a business man who did succeed
he used to live in New Jersey now he has a family.
Tommy one day will have a child
niece or nephew will be like him- kind of wild.
John's has girls that are sweet and smart
they are gracious girls with kind hearts.
Nice to have brothers that can make you laugh
just as long as it's not about you having gas.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 9,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tommy Keep Your Head Down
Tommy is a soldier in the army
Tommy thinks all the “Top Brass” are barmy
Tommy is out on patrol in Iraq
Tommy hears gun-fire, he’s under attack
“Tommy keep your head down” a voice did say
Tommy saw the “Insurgents” run away
Tommy felt a burning pain in his head
Tommy fell to the ground, and Tommy bled
Tommy did not wish to die in the sand
Tommy had a wife,5 kids, all unplanned
Tommy has a widow and 5 orphans
Tommy has donated all his organs
Tommy was a soldier in the army
Tommy knows all the “Top Brass” are barmy________________
poem by Gordon David
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Men in Green
Oh, there were fifteen men in green,
Each with a tommy-gun,
Who leapt into my plane at dawn;
We rose to meet the sun.
We set our course towards the east
And climbed into the day
Till the ribbed jungle underneath
Like a giant fossil lay.
We climbed towards the distant range,
Where two white paws of cloud
Clutched at the shoulders of the pass;
The green men laughed aloud.
They did not fear the ape-like cloud
That climbed the mountain crest
And hung from ropes invisible
With lightning in its breast.
They did not fear the summer's sun
In whose hot centre lie
A hundred hissing cannon shells
For the unwatchful eye.
And when on Dobadura's field
We landed, each man raised
His thumb towards the open sky;
But to their right I gazed.
For fifteen men in jungle green
Rose from the kunai grass
And came towards the plane. My men
In silence watched them pass;
It seemed they looked upon themselves
In Times's prophetic glass.
Oh, there were some leaned on a stick
And some on stretchers lay,
But few walked on their own two feet
In the early green of day.
(They did not heed the ape-like cloud
That climbed the mountain crest;
They did not fear the summer sun
With bullets for their breast.)
Their eyes were bright, their looks were dull;
Their skin had turned to clay.
Nature had meet them in the night
And stalked them in the day.
And I think still of men in green
On the Soputa track,
With fifteen spitting tommy-guns
To keep the jungle back.
poem by David Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Vale
So ends a life, lived to the full alway,
Thro' peace, thro' war, thro' honored peace again,
From youth unto the closing of his day
Lived simply. Yet a giant among men
Today steals quietly to seek his rest
As quietly he lived, yet none his peer.
In service of his land he gave his best
And, in simplicity, found greatness here.
Seeking no honour but his country's thanks,
No man among us won a place more high.
Comrade and leader where the myriad ranks
Stand now with bended heads as John goes by.
Ever a man, a soldier and a friend
In every heart some echo of the knell
That marks his passing throbs for this great end,
Saying in requiem, 'Pass, John, all is well.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Will Take You Home To Millstreet
I will take you home to Millstreet when the may is in her bloom
And the green meads cloked with wildflowers scent of nature's sweet perfume
And the dark winged barn swallows white unders and throat rust brown
Wheel above the lush green pastures bordering Millstreet's country town.
I will take you home to Millstreet to the town by Clara hill
When the dipper sings her sweetest on green bank of babbling rill
And the male snipe late at evening with his wings make goat like sound
As above the silent rush fields he goes flying around and round
I will take you home to Millstreet when soft grass growing breezes blow
And relive again the old days with old friends I used to know
And give a call into the Bush Bar for the dance and the sing song,
I will take you home to Millstreet if with me you'll come along.
Will you come with me my darling to green valleys far away
When the birds in leafy woodlands pipe their sweetest notes of May
To the Land I still call Homeland, to the country of my youth
Ireland, North Cork and Duhallow where my manhood first took
root.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Is A Barn?
A barn is many things-
A barn is a fun place
To run, romp, and play.
It is also a place of refuge,
On hot or stormy days.
A barn is a storage place
For all your tools, grain, and hay.
It is also a place to unwind,
When you have had a tough day.
A barn becomes God's sanctuary,
When you begin to pray
It is also a place of work,
When work is needing done.
A barn is a place
Where freindships can be made
It is also a place
Where new life is born.
A barn is a place
To try with all your might
And finally when its doors are closed,
'Tis safety from the night.
A barn is a place for horses,
And it is a place for cows
A barn is also a hayloft,
Full of little meows
A barn is the Inn
Where our Savior was born
God, our Savior,
Christ, our Lord.
A barn is a work place,
A barn is a play place
A barn is a great place
A barn is a training ring...
A barn is..
Well, when it comes right
Down to it,
A barn is everything!
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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Old Town Types No. 10 - Big Doc Littlejohn
Big Doc. Littlejohn, and ugly man and tall,
He wasn't very graceful, no part of him was small;
Big, frame, big head, huge hands, and red;
But gentle as a woman's as he stooped above the bed,
His great voice muted and the jaw out-thrust
And something there behind his eyes that captured human trust -
Big John Littlejohn, who drove until he died,
In his abbot buggy to the farms outside.
The family physician and the family's true friend;
No household in that wide, new land but loved him to the end;
And the old, fat midwife revered him as a saint:
'Sent straight from God, me dear,' says she. 'A human man she ain't.
No human flesh could bear it, no heart withstand the test,
The slavin', drivin', day an' night with no full hour of rest.'
But Big John Littlejohn, with one of his tired smiles,
Climbed in his abbot buggy for another seven miles.
He'd never met a vitamin, he seldom sought a knife;
But he healed full many a body and he saved full many a life.
For ten years, for twenty years, for forty years he toiled
His aid unstinted and his heart unspoiled,
The friend of rich and poor alike, at everybody's call
For large fee, for small fee, or no fee at all,
In his old abbot buggy, with his wind-blown hair,
Rushing to another case behind his bay blood mare.
They found him on one winter dawn, low-huddled in the seat
Of the old abbot buggy, with the rug about his feet;
The great frame at rest at last, the mind rid of its load,
While the blood mare nibbled at the grass beside the road.
And the sad folk who found him there, before ought else, they say,
First knelt them in the roadside mud and bent their heads to pray
For great John Littlejohn, the grey man and kind,
The healer and the friend, who left not wealth nor foe behind.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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John Barleycorn
There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John barleycorn must die!
Well, theyve ploughed, theyve sown, theve harrowed him in.
Threw clouds upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John barleycorn was dead.
Theyve let him lie for a long long time,
Till the rains from heaven did fall.
And little sir john sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him fly till the midsummers day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little sir john has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.
They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
Serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
For hes bound him to the cart.
Well, theyve wheeled him round and round the field,
Till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
Concerning a barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
To split him skin from bone, yeah,
But the miller he has served him worst and bad
For he ground him between two stones.
Well theres beer all in the barrel
And brandy in the glass,
But little old sir john with his nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
John barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!
Now the huntsman, he cant hunt the fox,
Nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he cant mend his pots
Without john barleycorn,
John barleycorn, john barleycorn,
Barleycorn, barleycorn
John barleycorn, john barleycorn.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: Nothing Is Permanent
Some friends have left; some more are leaving too;
To greener pastures, grass, more succulent;
I wonder when comes turn to me, to you;
And if it comes, I'm sure, we won't relent.
'Tis sad that people never realize,
That all Indians are brothers and sisters;
And yet they cheat them by the game of dice;
Tho' honesty in this world sure matters.
'Ask not what your country has done for you;
Ask what you have done for it”-it is said;
The reverse saying with time becomes true;
For life is short before each one is dead.
If head is right, the tail will wag but slight;
If tail is right, the head can't show its might.
poem by John Celes
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The Arabian Beauty
It gallops across the sunny slopes,
The grass so green on this little hill,
As it plunges into a field of flowers below,
The wind blows strong,
As if to say, ' Come my friend, frolic all day! '
It rears it's head, and tosses it mane,
It's muscles rippling like the surface of a lake,
This horse is a hard one to tame.
It's speed is like lightning flashing across a
midnight sky,
It's eyes are bright and shimmer like stars,
It's coat glimmers on the moonlit beaches,
And shines on a cloudless day.
It's hooves are as black as tar
And carries this large horse a long way.
It's fearless heart is as big as the moon,
This horse is the
Arabian Beauty.
poem by T.R. Crissian
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.
Boy From The Country
This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the an evening with john denver album as a live track, and has also been released on the some days are diamonds album as a studio versi
R
Because he called the forest brother
Because he called the earth his mother
They drove him out into the rain
Some people even said the boy from the country was insane
Because he spoke with fish in the creek
He tried to tell us that the animals could speak
Who knows, perhaps they do
How do you know they dont
Just because theyve never spoken to you
Boy from the country, he left his home when he was young
Boy from the country, he loves the sun
He tried to tell us that we should love the land
We turned our heads and laughed
And we did not understand
Sometimes I think that the boy from the country
Is the only one who sees
Because the boy from the country
Doesnt want to see the forest for the trees
Boy from the country, he left his home when he was young
Boy from the country, he loves the sun
Words and music by michael murphy
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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