by Jonathan Bleat Perry
(To be recited in an elegant English accent or Suessian manner near a big red barn, overlooking grazing goats, while standing on your head in the mud, until the farmer chases you off his property with a shotgun.)
There once was a young goat named Gatsby the Bleater,
who never stopped feeding, he was such a big eater.
He wasn’t too picky at all with the food.
He’d eat nearly anything, he would be in the mood.
A brown shoe. A white shoe. A tin can. He’d eat ‘em.
A little boy’s homework was just right to feed him.
Gatsby ate all the neighbor’s prize flowers one day.
In two gulps he downed them. He ignored all the hay.
Jungian Psychologist, Doctor Friederich Katorter
diagnosed our poor Gatsby with a stunning disorder
It stemmed from a straining with his goat-father, Todd.
Always butting their heads. It was really quite odd.
Depression brought eating and scrapbooking habits.
He painted with bunnies and ate like the rabbits.
Poor Gatsby grew larger, in the gates he kept sticking,
so they oiled up the charger, but he smelled like fried chicken.
His love life was waning. All the doe-goats were chilly.
He felt more like a ninny and less like a billy.
The lovely wool sweater his goat-mother knit him
was now far too small and it no longer fit him.
The meadows were lonely without his fun frolics,
though meetings were held for young goat chocoholics.
The saddest day brought myocardial infarction.
Then wolves. And last, Gatsby’s own real estate auction.
So bachelor goat-children, beware. Heed my warning:
this vivid dream was trippy and, dude, don’t eat a box of pixie stix right before bed. db
(From the Upcoming Bachelor eBook, probably called Midnight Feedings, or something else)
the secret word is Seussian
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