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By the trout’s tail the stone has been flung
From the tarn to the land where it lies
On a goatpat, (a pat of goat dung)
Where it’s circled by thousands of flies.

Now the stone it is so sick and tired,
Petrified, panic-stricken with fright;
For it’s either deep in the tarn mired
Or it’s blinded by brilliant sunlight.

So the stone would prefer a location
Where it won’t by the trout’s tail be flicked.
Just to rest and enjoy recreation,
And not be by a mountain goat kicked.

But it seems that the stone it is cursed;
Relocation for ever at hand.
While sometimes from the tarn it will burst,
Before long, in the tarn it will land.

Light to dark, dark to light, it’s propelled
Like a ball in a game of ping-pong.
Now to sit in the sun it’s compelled.
(Well at least till a goat comes along.)

{Here is a much better poem by a much better poet.}