He was a wicked charmer,

gray beard and looks aloof.

His mouth seemed to be smiling

as he pawed with cloven hoof.

Who knows what artful visions

were conjured in his mind.

Behind the piercing scrutiny

he leveled at mankind.

 

He fed on living salad;

herb garden at his ken

and quietly ruminated

on the qualities of men.

Some frightened by his story.

Some feared to show their back.

Some kindly but so cautious;

afraid of horned attack.

 

One ear was almost missing

but verve shone on his face,

as  with artistic passion

he judged the human race.

I said. “Your name sir?” softly

but he gave me no reply.

Instead he slowly turned his head

to stare me in the eye.

 

The quiet woman, near me

said.  “Vincent is his name,

perhaps reincarnated

from a man of painting fame.

With baleful look he withered her.

She quailed before she spoke.

Then stooped to whisper in my ear

“He’s named Vincent Van Goat.”

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1994