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.
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