A Poem for Goats | The Survival Gardener

Of all beasts that I miss, it is goats I miss least,
Their pungent aroma, their insistent bleats,
Their raisin-like droppings, their knee-hooking horns,
Their ravages through cabbages and tramplings in corn
Their pulling up fruit trees and gnawing the roots
Their stripping of bark and destroying of shoots
Their butting, their rutting, their unspeakable beards
The deserts they make as all greenery is sheared
Every fence is a test, every garden a feast
Of all beasts that I miss, it is goats I miss least

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