BILLY-GOAT PARADE
© Keith Lethbridge
Co-Winner, 2023 Silver Quill, WA Bush Poets and Yarnspinners – Humorous Section, Toodyay, West Australia.
He was strutting like a millionaire, his wallet stuffed with notes,
When he hit the city limits with a mob of feral goats.
A buyer from the Middle East had paid him in advance,
So Digger left the sale-yards and went searching for a dance.
Three weeks of droving billy-goats had left him fairly rank,
But that didn’t raise an eyebrow at the tavern or the bank.
He rubbed his scalp with axle grease from underneath a truck,
Inserted several stitches in his dusty, goat-skin britches
Then set forth to try his luck.
They were waltzing at the Embassy; the lights were soft and low,
All the ladies in their finery with gentlemen in tow;
A cavalcade of Sunday suits, of faces pale and thin,
When through the polished jarrah doors old Digger ambled in.
I hardly need to mention that he didn’t match the scene;
His hob-nail boots were grotty and his singlet far from clean;
Two dingo scalps adorned his belt, a trifle worse for wear,
And Digger’s ancient drover’s hat, the product of a feral cat,
Was well beyond repair.
They might have kept on waltzing; camaraderie was strong,
But nobody could tolerate that God-forsaken pong!
Two ladies screamed in terror, then collapsed upon the floor,
While their husbands, feeling gallant, marched old Digger to the door.
Now, he would have left in silence, for a drover has his pride,
But those billy-goats had busted loose and followed him inside.
Old Digger tried to round them up; he didn’t want a fight,
But you can’t control a circus of capricious Capra hircus
Chewing everything in sight!
They skidded round the polished floor then quickly set to work
On petticoats and perfume driving billy-goats berserk.
The preacher prayed profoundly for those fiends to disappear,
‘Til a massive Anglo-Nubian attacked him from the rear.
All those crimson gladiolis were nibbled off the wall,
While the plastic decorations proved the tastiest of all,
The M C gave a startled yelp, then bolted for the door,
Through the fauna and the flora ’til a little grey Angora
Sent him crashing to the floor!
The band played on regardless, but the tempo sadly strayed
From a placid Pride of Erin to a billy-goat parade.
The pianist palpated and the poor old drummer swore
When a woolly-whiskered Toggenburg demanded an encore!
Amid the pandemonium, old Digger showed no fear;
He climbed aboard a Saanen buck and bit him on the ear;
They galloped round the kitchen like a stricken ocean liner,
Through a storm of twisted metal from a toaster and a kettle
And a cloud of broken china.
Pavlova, soup and sticky buns went sailing through the air;
Minestrone, rice and apple strudel wafted everywhere.
A paddy-wagon thundered up; recriminations started,
But through the kitchen window Digger hastily departed...
Now lately, at the Embassy, you won’t find any dancing;
Those highly polished jarrah boards have seen their last romancing.
They reckon old-time waltzes won’t attract the modern youth,
But sixty-seven billy-goats, with hoofs and horns and hairy coats,
Could testify the truth!
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