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Baby goat

She naps in her own dish, not something that I wish to even think about. She’s such a little doll; completely in her thrall, I watch her climbing out. Her hair is soft as silk. She loves her mother’s milk; of that, there is no doubt. From barn to sleep at night, to meadow at first light, she walks a well-worn route. Exploring all around, and leaping with a bound, she’s quite the little scout. I’d rather eat an eel, than have her as a meal; I’d sure feel like a lout.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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Date: 5/9/2022 7:34:00 AM
Hi Jeff,loved your poem.My neighbor up the road raises Boer goats.I like to go to town via the road by their place I dubbed goat road many years ago.I would ask my grandchildren do you guys want to go to town on the interstate or on goat road?We always opted for the latter.The babies in spring are so solidly sweet.Enjoy hearing about you and their antics.
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