Let me not to the breeding of true goatsadmit false excrement.Poop is not poop that alters when it constipation finds.Or bends with the mucker to remove.No, it is an ever-tumbling rain of pelletsThat stick to hooves and shan’t be shaken.It is the dung on every wand'ring bark,Whose worth’s unknown, although its grams be taken.Poop’s no mere stool, that wagging buttsand…
“Goats Head Soup.” The very thought makes my fur stand on end. The Rolling Stones turned out four killer LPs in a row, with titles that slayed (figuratively). And then they released an almost-killer LP with a title that slayed (literally). You know, Mick Jagger was a smart guy….London School of Economics and all that. If he hadn’t ended up…
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 folk tales of fog-pooping are deeply rooted in goat lore of the 18th century. If anything, Frost stole from US!
Blah, blah, blah, say the humans. And baa, baa, baa, say I. Elections my tail! I’ve seen it all, man. Like, I was sitting in Bobby Dylan’s pad on 4th Street one night back in ’65, and he said, “You know, the masters make the rules for the wise men and the fools.” And then that damn optimist Lennon chimes…
I don’t know any goat that’s 100% black or white or tan. Most of us are of mixed color, and proud of it. But I do know a few billies who are predominantly black, and I never understood how they could work at that racist place called ‘Maggie’s Farm.’ You know, it was ME who encouraged Bob Dylan to write…