In the tradition of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven or something, this moody gothic piece recently earned Honorable Mention in the RFD Network’s “Tangentally Livestock-Related Poesy Round-Up.”
“Leave my soup by the door,”
She said.
So the maid left the soup
On the floor by the door.
The foot doctor crept slowly
Across that wooden floor.
Kicking the soup bowl
Approximately 2 meters.
“You kicked my soup,”
She said.
“It was on the floor,”
The foot doctor answered.
“It was a pretty good kick,”
She admitted.
“About 2 meters,”
The foot doctor bragged.
“Why are you even here?”
She asked.
“To check on your gout,”
The foot doctor replied.
“I told the maid my goat was sick,”
She grumbled.
“A goat is not gout,”
The foot doctor screamed.
“What if I could get you a tryout for Man United?”
She wondered.
“I’d declare your gout cured,”
The foot doctor offered.
He got the tryout.
He made the team.
He declared her gout cured.
The goat never recovered.
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