Horny Old Goat
Beards can do it,
gobbets of spittle caught
in their tangle,
the general messiness
that says wild man,
the whiff of savage.
Pan carried it off
with swagger and a certain
je ne sais quoi. Booze, probably,
plus the upright, two-legged stance
with everything in view,
nothing left to the imagination.
A cloven hoof, a flash of phallus,
and it’s easy to forget
smelly socks and the loo seat up.
Outside the bathroom window
sits a glimpse of mountain meadow
that stirs our inner nymph.
We can be Greek too,
we can be skimpily clad
and drink from the horn of plenty.
Forget on-line shopping, girls,
ditch posh nosh and shampoo angst
for chunks of Bleu de Chèvre
washed down with a slug of
immoderate pleasure. Listen for
goat bells ringing, the clip-clop
of interested feet, feel
warm breath over your shoulder.
If you have any comments on this poem, Shirley Wright
would be pleased to hear from you.