A Goat Named Sam

Sam was only tiny when he came to us
Black as coal with stubby tail, and he had a brother, Gus.
The two young kids would run and jump and frolic, side by side.
Til the day when Gus took sick and in the grass he died.

Sam nuzzled Gus and whimpered but Gus lay still as stone.  Sam watched us carry Gus away and stood crying, all alone.
He mourned for days, his plaintive bleats were pitiful to hear.
To ease the aching of my heart I began to drink more beer.

I'll never know exactly when Sam got over Gus, but as he grew and sprouted horns, he stopped making such a fuss.
It must have dawned on him one day that, as he was alone, there was no one to challenge him, no rival for  the throne.

He's full-grown now with swept-back horns and teeth like piano keys.
Two-hundred pounds of muscle and faster than the breeze.
His forehead's like an anvil, he uses it to ram.
If you're not careful near him, you'll soon be in a jam.

He'll strip the glove right off your hand, your hat right off your hair and as a last embarrassment, he'll nip your derriere.
His diet varies daily, it depends on what's nearby. He'll reduce a gate to porridge then feast on cedar pie.

Plastic snow fence disappears like pasta down his maw.  The chrome on cars he fancies most, he strips and eats it raw.
Plywood, foil and cardboard make fine aperitifs.
If he gets near a clothesline, oops! there goes Grandpa's briefs!

I hear they're tearing down a house a mile down Tucker's Pike.  If they run into problems, we'll help them if they like.
Put away the nitro, shut down that dozer, Ma'am.
Your worries, they are over.  Meet Demolition Sam!

R.T. Caldwell