Monkey Riding Goat
A word of advice: if you ever engage the services
of a goat for the purposes of transport – if you ever ride
one home – then you’ll be needing SatNav , trust me.
At night, a goat’s navigational instincts are flawed to say
the least. They just don’t have the Knowledge, you see;
though they’re cunning as black cabs to the King’s Cross virgin.
For whatever reason, that ride home was far from easy.
A goat’s steering is heavy; his mind very much made up
as to the rights and wrongs of that short cut we took.
Just my luck to run across a racist billy; bleating on and on
about how this neighbourhood has gone right down the nick,
how it all used to be fields and how we should “send ‘em back”.
At the crack of dawn I was ready to kill him; send him back
to his horny Greek ancestors or, better yet, Yom Kippur the fucker
back to Biblical times; see how he takes to being chucked out.
Martin Malone is a poet living in Warwickshire. He is editor of the magazine The Interpreter’s House.