To My Goat

I remember your innocent reply

to the butchman’s grim question,

Your Naivety, never has a hangman

granted life as a last wish!

But fear not, you’re God’s martyr.

.

.

.

I’ve executed your will with utmost care:

all your love poems are now ashes,

your biography has gone to the publisher,

all the royalties will be spent on your lineage

and your skin did not fly to London.

.

.

.

your friends, the sheep, fell on the last day

wish I could say they felt no pain,

they were noble in life, noble in death,

looked the slayer in the eye

but alas, could not help bleating

.

.

.

I am sorry that you tainted

my memory of you with lies.

No, sir, no goats were slayed

with guillotines in the Revolution.

your descendants will be slayed

like you were, guillotine is forbidden to you

even if you were French.

.

.

.

.

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