There is a goat atop a windy hill,
It stands against the wind and gnaws on grass;
So pensively, he contemplates the thrill
Of leaping from the mound and hauling ass.
Right into town he'd go to mess with folks,
So unsuspecting in idyllic homes;
At first they'd think the goat a silly hoax,
About as silly as some silly poems.
The goat would charge, the folks would shriek and run,
Undone by one small bleat on pounding feet;
The terror of the centuries they reckon
Has come upon to eat their luscious wheat.
The goat is bored and that is all it takes,
But still it chews and thinks about mistakes.