Whose hill this is I do not know
The owner left so long ago
He would not mind me coming, though
To fertilize the ground below.
My donkey friend must think it queer
To see me boldly discharge here
Between the roads and foggy Mon
The darkest hour before the dawn.
I give my little tail a shake
And pellets I do quietly make,
As tugboats down below call out
And owls above my talents tout.
The shed is warm, the hay is deep
But I have lots of poop to reap
And miles to go before I bleat
And miles to go before I bleat.
By Molino, January 27, 2018
Some have accused me of stealing from Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” when I penned this instant classic. What they don’t realize is that tales of ‘fog-pooping’ are deeply rooted in goat lore of the 18th century. If anything, Frost stole from US! – Molino
