The highland for any goat, you could never replace
For in the heart of this graising creature has a special place

To run and jump in the scottish cold, leaping in the silt
The greatest breeze to hit your cheeks and blow right up your kilt

Oh the sound of bagpipes playing there early in the morn
It’s such a reson to never be, morbid or forlorne

To swig a mature brew of scotch from 1759
A beautiful aroma, crisp flavour a drink thats so devine

For this goat is happiest, inside of his home
The scottish highlands, of which he can, live in peace and roam

But the non-stop lifestyle took it’s toll on his goaty health
Money could not fix him now, his life was his wealth

The constant achohol and scotch eggs, brought the end to his tale
For the drinking made him ill and weak and made his liver fail.