The
Spider Goats
They were a well-kept flock,
Their fleeces were deep natural cremes,
Beiges & buffs & blacks. What struck the
Little bumpkin shepherd though,
& Not the silk they span, or the money,
The halitosis scattering scientist
Jargon,
It was their bleating. Beh-h-h-h,
They would say to him through their teeth,
Flitting along the paddock fence, beh-h-h-h.
But he was the son of two cousins,
A recessive gene pair nightmare, probably
Seven toes & a thumb under one shoe.
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©
2001 Trout &
Nick
Ascroft
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