Would my life be better if I raised goats,
or even if I just had goats around?
Instead of goats, I have cats.
I could always drink my weight in root-beer floats—
water displaced at 163.8 pounds.
Or, I could raise goats.
A goat’s a dolly who won’t hog the remote.
They don’t get along with hounds,
goats don’t, and neither do cats—
though I know one particular cat
who’s besties with a pit-bull hound.
Hell, my life might not change that much if I raised goats—
I’d still wake up late and microwave whole oats
(three minutes) for breakfast, and hear the loving sound
of importunate, surly cats
lobbying for snacks. So I don’t need more goats than what
I’ve already got, having myself for a friend.
My life’s already good because I’m an old goat
who digs cats.
