The Goose

You can listen to a recording of this one performed by Harvey Taylor, the poet himself, right here:

‘Twas Christmas Eve did I decide
The goose that flew
The one that flied
That goose on high
Would I contrive its sad demise
The one that flew
Would I in stew
Immerse on Christmas Day this year
For fear that else I had not much repast
Nor would I til the new year last
Without such bounty Succulent and ripe
No more lank gruel no more foul tripe
But goose I would my table stock with
Goose I would consume my fork with

And so to marshland, grey and damp
I took my blunderbuss and sinking deep with the bog
My bollocks freezing moist with slime
Nor blizzards nor howling banshees heeded
Took my aim as the great goose feeded
Upon his rank and fetid turf
And just as trigger had I squeezed
Like some ancient Roman augur
Rose the bird in all its splendour Took to wing and soared beyond
The scope of my gigantic gun

Then turning head in scorn it paused
Seeming in its mind to cause
Some deeply intestinal motion
A disembowelled foul commotion
A fart of monumental portion
With quivered loins, facial distortion
Then did the goose proceed to crap
Upon my face and in mine eye

I’m blinded, fucking goose, I cried

And just as goose thought to scarper
A lightning bolt from some black cloud
Did scupper goose with deaf’ ing loud
Explosive complementary fart
From heaven above

Oh holy buttocks
That goose did pole axe, tumbled down
And gathering sorry goose from ground
I made my way back through the mud
And hung it next to Christmas pud
The morrow planning goose to relieve
of gizzard, feathers and thus retrieve
Some semblance of a Christmas feast
Exact revenge upon the beast….

I woke on Christmas morn
forlorn to find my stocking empty
Devoid of cheer
No Christmas here
The fire out the dog gone stiff
Died in the night of Christmas Eve
Another mishap sent to peeve
My very soul to perdition
I did attempt a seasonal carol

And tripping o’er the empty barrel
From which my Christmas ale had leaked
Abandoned even this rendition
Of hark the fucking herald angels sing
Becoming tangled in a web
Of mouldy clothes left dripping in my mangle
My hair yet tangled with the poop
Of strangely grinning goose
Still cock-a-hoop

A fiendish mocking grin despite its deathly pallor
Resolved I there right then to stuff
The bastard bird full chestnuts with
And heretofore set fire to my beard
As stove I several times did light
And watch with growing ire falter,
Spit and die again
Not even embers glowing did it leave
I wept and thence wiped snot upon my sleeve
And set about the goose with swords
It’s guts I rendered on the walls
Of my now freezing forest hovel
I stove goose head with ancient shovel
I snapped goose feet with vicious pliers
I crucified said goose in crown of briars
I resurrected every Christian spirit
To wreak revenge upon that fucking goose
And as my head I placed in noose
And bid farewell to rotting dog
And thought of lost and unrequited loves
The hand of God
Once more did intervene
With heavenly fire

Oh wondrous clap
Not like that which my doctor diagnosed
But sent from paradise itself to light the fire
The goose now golden
It’s melting fat all glistening
The chestnuts sizzled
I’d have my Christmas yet
And yet… And yet…
Did I espy
Some devious shrinkage in the bird
As though it sought escape in death

Why yes whereas before it had been almost grand
Now was it wizened
An older bird all shrivelled
As if to mock me more
Diminished further did it grow
In inverse ratio to my alarm
From peacock size to pea reduced
My vengeance on the bird transduced
Belatedly I sought to capture
Leaking goose fat on my platter
And burnt my hand
And dropped the plate
And scrapping grease from floor of slate
Came face to face upon the stove
With shrunken goose, now pimple sized
As like a blackhead on the arse
Of my long lost and not so dear departed wife

I snapped with fish faced avarice
and managed thus this final morsel to consume
oh marvellous taste
That I did slaver and roll within my mouth
Savoury salvation even unto the vey last recorded molecule of goose
I licked the slates of fat
Until my tongue turned black
And satiated thus
Fell back into a wondrous slumber

‘Twas Boxing Day
The cupboard bare
And yet replete with roasted
If somewhat diminished goose
And fattened with the grease from slated floor
I sat and stared into the roaring flames of heaven lit stove
And contemplated
As all men are wont to do
My navel, fat and hairy, not unlike the breast of that now cooked, depleted bird
And thought I heard
The rumblings of a distant thunder
And thus disturbed made haste to move from my luxurious repose
And heard again, now somewhat close
A dark and sinister percussion
Which seemed to emanate from deep within
My stomach churned to think such din
Might herald thus a coming storm
My jowls did ache
My knees did quiver

So seeking to allay my fears
I stumbled from my rotten chair
Threw wide the door and stared out to a sunlit sky
No thunder clouds nor rain did I
Perceive. It seemed the thunder rolled
And chundered in my gut
I turned towards the outdoor privy
And catching heels in a rut
Thus tumbled full foursquare upon the ground
My nose impaled upon a thorn
which buried had itself become
within the turds of dead and decomposing dog

Once more i seemed accursed by God
As I lay there
My broken bones unnumbered
My raging intestinal thunders unhinging each adjacent organ
A growing sense of rank foreboding
Inexorable excretions creeping
A growth of monumental portent
An inverse roasted-goose-like tumour
Expanding bowels, inflaming bladder
At any moment set to blow
A fowl inspired, foul vendetta
That seethed and bubbled like a cauldron
My belt did creak my buckle snapped
My trousers split from cheek to cheek
Somehow the goose grew fatter still
And cackled audibly inside
All swollen, black and purplish veins
Did writhe and seethe upon my paunch
And just when gut I thought would split
When arse I felt was fit to blitz
The village miles beyond
With vast explosive torrent of shit
No deity in Heaven could ever staunch
A lightning bolt did rend asunder
My sore distended sorry gut
And dissipate all pent up thunder
Release not one goose, but a glut
All golden fleeced and full of mirth
An ornithologically, immaculate birth
A whole fucking flock from just one girth
Each golden goose a fortune worth
Yet not one goose could I ensnare
Not one gold feather as I lay there

I lay askance upon the ground
And heard the sound of three wise men
Debate the merits of myrrh and gold
Of frankincense and yonder star

I don’t know who you think you are
I yelled to them still thus prostrate
But Christmas Time was yesterday
You’re one whole day too fucking late!

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