Posted in Poetry

Poor Little Goat

I was a goat,

Who was on the boat.

I was tied,

To be killed and fried.

 

I had lost my parents,

For whom it happened like me.

A man was holding me,

But I tried to become free.

 

They took me to a butcher,

Who was whacking meat on the furniture.

He stared at me, like I was a thief,

But stopped when checking my weight.

 

He chopped off my head,

Like I was a piece of bread.

This what happens to goats,

Before they became ghosts.

Written by Shishir, STD VII.

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