The house is full of arnica,
The mystery profound;
We do not dare to run about
Or make the slightest sound;
We leave the big piano shut
And do not strike a note;
The doctor’s been here seven times
Since father rode the goat.

He joined the lodge a week ago—
Got in at four A. M.
And sixteen brethren brought him home,
Though he says he brought them.
His wrist was sprained and one big rip
Had rent his Sunday coat—
There must have been a lively time
When father rode the goat.

He’s resting on the couch to-day
And practicing his signs—
The hailing sign, working grip,
And other monkey shines,
He mutters passwords ’neath his breath
And other things he’ll quote—
They surely had an evening’s work
When father rode the goat.

He has a gorgeous uniform,
All gold and red and blue,
A hat with plumes and yellow braid,
And golden badges, too.
A sword of finest tempered steel;
Hilt set with precious stones.
He says this par’phernalia
All came from Pettibone’s.

This goat he leads what “Teddy” calls
A very strenuous life.
Makes trouble for such candidates
As tackle him in strife.
But somehow, when we mention it,
Pa wears a look so grim,
We wonder if he rode the goat
Or if the goat rode him.