José was a goat who lived in Mexico.
Unassuming, not at all unique.
So one warm spring day,
Towards the setting sun he would go.
Losing himself in the brown Oaxacan hills,
Out of sight, out of mind,
Venturing to fields he had never seen,
Eventually to fields of endless green.
Maybe it was the thrill, of new found grass, maybe,
Eating the same food was a crime.
