One cast his form upon the living age,
One lived his life above it, or below;
One legend for his vigor and his rage,
One craved the beauties only minds can know.
O, little good of either can be said,
“The Great” most so in murder and in wine;
And Cynics named for doggish lives they led;
But then, in all of life, there’s little fine.
A little thing, an idling of a day,
No, scarcely worth so small a poem as this;
Two lives a moment crossed upon their way,
And neither would the other ever miss.
But there in Corinth, now a common sight,
Where one cast shadows, and one sought the light.
MacMurphy’s head hangs
Fittingly from my saddle horn.
I’d snatched it in a moment
When he couldn’t decide
Which way to parry.
The look of surprise is still on his face.
MacNulty’s ugly mug provides
Balance on the other side.
He was just slow, or stupid, or tired of living.
His expression is one of benign neglect.
I wonder whose woman will miss her man more.
But these are thoughts best left to philosophers.
The only head that speaks to me at this hour
Dangles with doggish eagerness under my kilt.
Fiona, warm up the haggis.
I’m coming home.
He has curved horn
colored dirty black body
never brushes his teeth
that he exposes often
probably to express envy
to every rival seen around
He cares not about the tail
that is doggish and fat
mustache he does not brush neat
and the belly that is heavy
as that of a she-goat touches soil
when he moves around the herd
He stands up to address goats
and to warn line of opponents
But the mouth gets stuck
He only waved his doggish tail
and shows off his harmless horns
as he intimidates others ..Meee. Meee!
But the more he brags and intimidates
the uglier he looks in the herd
He causes goats to laugh, jeer
while embracing other He-goats
intimately!
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