suxanne popp

My Polite Goat

A discrete brown wrapper
Encases my goat
No floozy curls or upturned horns
Sensible oxford brown straight coat.

She is known as Buttercup
And abides in the lane
Between my home and the stable
On a tether so plain.

Before she came to this farm
She lived with teenagers
Television, Ritz crackers
And a sofa with a reclining arm.

What does she think of her fallen estate?
Nothing. She takes it in stride.
There may be a novel in it, after all.
She has nothing to hide.

Buttercup is not a ranting nanny
She is not a pampered pet.
She is beloved by the grandchildren
How much better can it get?

Avocado peels and a banana or two
Lots of soda, so everything stays calm
A little pet, a bed of soft hay
Four horses, the dog and three geese will do.


Buttercup prays every night
On her knees, that's a callous
That her life will stay tranquil
She's had enough of the palace.

Oh, Buttercup has breeding
A registry shows her place
A heart with her name
Engraved on the face.

She carefully selects a berry
From the blackberry bush
Pushing aside the grass
With a neat little hoof.
Bring me another pail of apple peels
I am feeling the weather a bit
I would like some music in the aisle
And a platform on which to sit.

So Buttercup crosses her long brown legs
Covers one knee with the other
Contemplating over her cud
When the orchard will be bare.
She does not care for the rain.
She is not fond of flies.
Her neck cannot tolerate a chain
In fact, who likes to be tied?

She erases this negativity
sips from her tiny bucket in sworls
The grandboy will be coming soon.
How she loves to muzzle his curls.

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 12, 2009

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