“Sir Mortimer’s poems of note
Were despised by his lady’s pet goat.
The goat said, ‘Oh pschutt!’
And proceeded to butt
Sir Mortimer into the moat.”
“Now, William, it’s up to you,” said the Poet, as his sister, regardless of her fluffy pink finery, sat down on the floor and shrieked.
But already the goat, looking deeply embarrassed, was trotting off toward the barn.
“That settles it,” said the Poet solemnly. “I am ordained Poet of the People.”
Galatea got up, gurgling, and rested her flushed cheek on her brother’s collar.
“George, you’re the most delicious old thing ever created.”