There’s been some worry, I confess,
Concern that I might make a mess,
And not quite finish what I started
Before the deadline has departed.
For time, you see, is running low,
I don’t have very long to go,
Yet seven challenges remain
And doing new ones is a pain;
I find I am not quite inspired
Fresh ideas are required.
But much as ever I might try
The font of genius runneth dry.
So scraping at the barrel now
I thought: “perhaps I’ll milk a cow.”
Well, inner London has its charms
But is not rich in dairy farms,
And not a cow could I procure
That would be willing to endure
My clumsy fumblings down below
For which I cannot blame them, no.
But out in Spain we had a friend
Who knew a bloke, who in the end
Requested of his cousin’s cousin
- Who’d a goat, or half a dozen -
If I could come to take a class
And fill a bucket, or a glass?
Ernesto gave a friendly ‘si’,
He’d be most glad to tutor me.
But on the given time and date
Some info came in, rather late:
Ernesto wasn’t in the know
With how to make the white stuff flow,
He’d never milked one in his life,
The one who did it was his wife,
(Who at that point was far away,
Off somewhere on a holiday.)
“In that case never mind,” I said
“We’ll think of something else instead.”
(For it did not seem very fair
To give the goat a beastly scare
By squeezing where one oughtn’t to
I just don’t think that’s kind, do you?)
Ernesto was quite undeterred,
“It’s just one goat, it’s not a herd!
“Between us we can fill a cup
Hold on a sec, I’ll tie her up.”
The nanny goat was duly tied,
And swaying on her underside,
Enormous udders milky full
Were ready, at the merest pull,
To squirt their creamy, frothy load
Over my hands, my feet, the road,
Anywhere but where I aimed
Because the goat was not quite tamed.
She put her back hoof in the bucket
As if to tell me where to shove it,
She knew quite well I had no clue
Of what I was supposed to do,
She had far better ways to spend
The final hours of her weekend;
There were some kids she hoped to feed
If only I’d give up the need
To go on squashing, spilling, wasting
Something I would not be tasting.
For the fact is that I never
Never, really, surely, ever,
Would be able to imbibe,
- Not for quite a handsome bribe -
That which came out of her teat,
I truly couldn’t take it neat,
I don’t drink milk, except in tea
I may be weird, but that’s just me.
And so the goat was left in peace,
Thankful for her swift release,
A centimetre in the pitcher,
Just enough to snap this picture:
I shall no more a milking go,
Amongst the trees and the old hedgerow,
But I have managed one more chore,
Completed: challenge twenty-four.
|Mil, mil gracias Lele, Ernesto y Pili.|
Twenty-four down, six to go...