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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