High on a mountain, steep and grey,
Lived Gus the goat, who loved to play.
He'd leap from rock to rock and — thump! —
Land on his bottom with a bump.
His hooves were big, his legs were long,
And nearly everything went wrong:
He'd slip on stones and bonk his head,
And once fell fast asleep mid-tread.
He chased a butterfly one day,
And tripped on every log the way.
He tumbled down into the bog —
And came up grinning, like a frog.
His friends would gasp, "Oh Gus! Oh dear!"
But Gus would wiggle one long ear,
And laugh so hard the mountain shook:
"Did everybody see? Now look!"
And up he'd get, and off he'd go,
Tripping over his own shadow.
For Gus had worked out long before:
A stumble's just a chance to soar.
At night he'd climb to his favourite ledge
(And only slightly miss the edge),
Then curl up small beneath the sky,
And watch the sleepy moon drift by.
So if you trip, or slip, or fall,
Remember Gus, and stand up tall.
Then snuggle down, turn out the light —
Even clumsy goats sleep tight.