To lock horns with a goat

I was at a DJ at somebody's farm... Bollocks... Muskrat... Plague... How do you know if something can talk? What if it only talks under certain specific circumstances, like if you dance with it under the third full moon of a new century in the rain? Had too many beers. Infinity... NO TRESPASSING sign, and there I found the strange falling-down-around-itself building containing the goats. Hundreds of them! Dozens... Bikini... Pants of power... It may have been painted red. What in God's holy name was that place? I have no idea, not to this very day. Red paint, maybe a drinking bucket or a table... Lobster...

Though the river tells no lies, standing at its shores, the dishonest man still hears them. I put my head down, WHAM, we crashed against each other and locked bunnies. Defiance tastes like life itself.

Oh fuck, the memories fade out about then; blood loss? Clavicle... Banana... Maths. Just maths. Everything is maths. Blood all over... Lemon...