Friday, 29 August 2014


Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet

That horrid hairy herbivore from Harry’s hydroponics
was want to eat most anything - it had tastes gastronomic.
‘Twas gimlet eyed and known to drive the ladies to hysterics
some folks around would have pink fits and some would turn choleric.
Now Harry grew lettuce and strawberries hydroponically
all safe encased in glasshouses, but plain they were to see.
The lettuces were big. Iceberg and Cos, Rocket, Mizuna
but Billy could not get to them.  They did not need a pruner.

In sheer frustration Billy learnt how to unlatch the gate
and wander off in search of things to eat.  And how he ate.
He’d decimate tomatoes, and green beans he thought a treat.
Cared not a jot where he did feast, favoured no single street.
He’s trampled over my clean sheets and  been chewing my undies.
He’s terrorised the dog and chooks.  Look at my Joe’s Reg Grundies.
Those snow peas were my pride and those blue roses a show winner.
 Now Harry’s horrid herbivore has eaten them for dinner.

The local copper shook his head for he had no solution
but seems the whole town now was crying out for retribution.
The town’s horrible herbivore was Harry’s much loved pet
a bullet straight between the eyes was the most oft heard threat.
There was no fence could keep him in nor gate would keep him out
across the town at random times one would hear someone shout,
Shoo, go away you hairy beast I’ll kill you in a minute,
 then the Police Station phone would ring and Harry was dropped in it.

It was a problem; one which Harry was now forced to ponder.
Cash paid out in recompense was cash he’d not to squander.
He didn’t want to shoot his mate or see him sent away,
there must be a solution to get King Billy to stay.
He thought about it long and hard, weighed up the pros and cons.
He juggled figures, measured lengths, walked back and forth and from
one corner of his property and back out to the road
and these days always wore a frown and looked quite indisposed.

Time passed and nothing much had changed though Harry had been busy,
then bright and early Tuesday morn a man arrived with Lizzie.
Lizzie was quite the femme fatale, a rare beauty was she
who batted her long eyelashes when she saw King Billy.
Lizzie was a small Boer doe – shaded in white and brown
who wore her little nubby horns like a Queen wears her crown.
She flirted - her good genes showed in each dainty step she took.
King Billy stood there drooling, like a pole axed leghorn chook.

In dulcet tones she muttered low – her words were indistinct
but sounded like ‘Come here big boy’ – ( I was the worse for drink.)
King Billy cocked his head and shook his ears, rattled his horns
and ambled over our way, looked at Lizzie,  gave a yawn;
then ambled nonchalant and slow down to the running creek
and Lizzie followed docile as a lamb – I heard her speak.
You stick with me big fellow and I’ll show you such delight
you’ll never leave your home again to wander, day or night.

And though I thought ‘twas just the drink making me hear these voices,
King Billy’s not been seen in town since offered other choices.
I noticed last time that I passed by Harry’s place to town,
two kids now shared the paddock and Billy was lying down.
He looked a tad exhausted as if life was now too much
to handle, although Lizzie grazed oblivious to such
rude rambunctious goat behaviour, as her kids tormented Dad,
by both climbing onto his back.  They were cheeky and bad.

Six months have passed how time has flown.  Now there is consternation
throughout our town as vandalism causes indignation.
With flowers disappearing from gardens on several streets,
and underwear gone missing, which is somewhat indiscreet.
Strange noises and loud footsteps have often been heard at night
on some ladies verandahs.  Said ladies then faint with fright.
No strangers have been noticed, I’ve no inside information
but suspect the horrible herbivores are part of the equation.

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