I think I ll write a poem in this document of notes.
It ought to be a poem about polka-dotted goats.
They live beneath a mountain that is floating in the sky,
But that is quite impossible, so now they all must die.
One day an archaeologist was walking o'er the plain
When, poof! a good idea went a-shooting through his brain.
But if, by good idea, you mean a bullet from a gun,
Then you will understand the striking nature of that pun.
But had that good idea missed the scientist that eve,
He would have seen the mountain, and he would have named it Steve.
Mount Steve he d have ascended, at the summit he would gloat,
And then he would be visited by the spirit of a goat.
The goat would try to eat him - this a spirit cannot do.
The creepy floating polka-goat the archaeologist would shoo.
Now this would cause the polka-goats to fly into a rage
And they would try to trap him in a polka-dotted cage.
However, since a spirit lacks material limbs and such,
Their efforts would not harm the archaeologist that much.
But still, our archaeologist's a chickenhearted guy,
So we will let him run from all those death-goats in the sky.
The archaeologist would tell this to reporters at the Post,
Who'd then demand some evidence for polka-dotted ghosts.
But if they send reporters with their cameras to get proof,
Then surely through their brains a good idea will go Poof!
The polka-goats will form a plan to conquer the whole earth.
And as for polka-goatsy plans, I'm sure 'twill have great worth.
But when you take into account that goats have little brains,
It seems that goatsy global war will not grace these quatrains.
So, back to where the story was, reporters, 'round the clock
Will find Mount Steve, where legends say, the polka-goats do flock.
The media will capture footage of these glorious beasts,
And they will flood the newspapers with photographic feasts.
The public will devour this, with feverish amaze.
The nature filmers, they will film where polka-goats did graze.
And all the while, these ghostly goats will grow their intellect
Until at last, a change their growing science will affect.
The spirits of the polka-goats will find a way to grow
New polka-dotted bodies, though at first they will be slow.
But gradually their scientists will increase their subtle skill,
Until at last, with polka-horns, the humans they will kill.
Despite the goatsy overlords that rule o'er all mankind,
Resistance groups across the globe will join their force and minds.
They'll have a good idea, and from rubble from the war,
They'll make an arsenal of things no man has shot before.
And so the conquered Sapiens who fight the polka-goats
Will with their good ideas make the polka-rulers toast.
Mankind with joy will celebrate their freedom from the reign
Of polka-dotted monsters - goats that gave them so much pain.
The great assumption here is that the archaeologist,
Though slightly grazed, in general, the good idea missed.
But as you might have figured out, that's simply not the case.
In fact, the good idea hit him squarely in the face.
And so our archaeologist has had to join the throng
Of spirits at Mount Steve, where physics seem to go quite wrong.
But still the polka-dotted goats are planning the demise
Of humankind, by dropping heavy mountains from the skies.
You hardly could anticipate the plot twist I'll let slip,
Because, you see, it seems Mount Steve is actually a ship.
'Twas built by Martian scientists with Mercurial cash,
Despite their guidance systems, on the polka-goats, it crashed.
And so, dear readers, understand, the polka-goats are dead,
In case preceding stanzas didn't jive within your head.
The mystery of polka-ghosts is that they don't exist
(At least, not in the living realm, a point that they have missed).
The Martian scientists have found that they have wasted funds,
So they are sending massive ships with even bigger guns.
The earthmen, now, instead of fighting polka-dotted ghosts.
Must don their guns against invading mighty Martian hosts.
Like H.G. Wells predicted, Martians won't survive the fight
From viruses and nastiness that's smaller than our sight.
So finally, it seems, my unique tale now must end,
Because I cannot think of something new for me to pen.