To a Fleeing Billy Goat

I powerfully doubt, If you wont be soon out: At this decided pace, The lion humble in a race; (Unless you court a banned steroid That the living enables to act Humanoid For , indeed, l’ve seen you gallop But at a speed for your sure wallop Your morale above fifty percent, Still a far cry from lion’s ninety nine percent! Many things now wasting your gains, Your naivety helping the pains. Then, comes the bundle between your thigh: Your ever spinning scrotum deaf to “why?” Ceaselessly, The Oscillatory, In smell cheap to every Olfactory: A Never–To–Retire Sex Tool That steadily makes you a fool, Certain now via the lion’s Paws To catapult you to death’s jaws… More chances oblige you to sorrow. Than ones of grazing tomorrow.