Not the lyric song of shepherds, my love
Bleats ungodly tunes in private. My unlovely
Irish tongue, Polish doom, a marriage made
For goats to butt heads by day, by night, love.
Goat Man Ches McCartney wed a Spanish
knife-thrower, his near-miss lethal lover.
In my act, you don't flinch, duck, scrape, or bow.
It appears you're an idiot for love.
Ches took to the road with a herd of goats,
A two-legged one who hopped—now that's love.
Dressed in goat skins, Crusoe and the Good Book
In tow, he preached smelly riffs on God's love.
I preach, too, you say: Once would be enough.
Finnegan wakes in my blood. My love,
Thor's chariot was pulled by two Norse goats
He ate each night. He saved the bones, by love