Classic Poem

A HE-GOAT caught while gnawing down a vine
Was dragged to die at Bacchus' holy shrine.
A Tuscan priest prepared the rogue to slay
And bade a rustic who had come that way
With sickle sharp to geld the unclean beast,
Lest the rank odour should offend the feast.
Then leaning o'er the altar with his knife
He pressed it down to rob it of its life.
But as he leaned, a hernia came to view,
And the dull rustic without more ado
Cut off the titbit, thinking, I suppose,
The gods were honoured by such meats as those.
So he's a Gaul who, when the rite began,
A Tuscan was, but now no more a man.