It's not mockery. It's semi-mockery. It's not something general. It's semi-general. It's not something particular. It's semi-particular. It's not a tale, just a semi-tale. There's no moral. I wanted to draw a book. It turned out to be something I can't name. It doesn't pretend to be called something, just like a separate word, sound, colour. It doesn't have any style. It just slips off the tongue, there's no responsibility for that.
It's funny. Then it's touching. Then comes a thought: to be serious about the funny, to be wize about the stupid, to be kind with the evil. Such incoherence exists. A philosophy appears. Then it's sometimes sad:
When someone is lonely, alienated and “with his top blown off” (derived, probably, from the expression “to blow into somebody's life”). No matter how a wize, inetlligent goat stands out with his image – it's HIS territory.
He's sad and lonely. Nobody understands and accepts him. He's lonely like all thinking ones are, and he's sad like all who are lonely. Contemplating is comfortable here. He needs this reality. He's limited by her. It inspires and spiritualizes him. He's connected with it throught his being. He doesn't like it, but he loves not liking it. He looks forward to have comfort but subconsciously fears it. He's tired of the pain but needs it. He's enthusiastic about the future but depends on the past. He's shy to want something new and feels jealousy of the old. He's got a choice. He's between two houses. He's being offended. He calms himself down recalling his eternal purpose in life that is valued only with the time and only by those like him. He is asked to teach and to cure. He is in demand. To give him something is impossible. Neither is to take something from him.
A cow is someone who's milked. She doesn't say a word though moos (protesting). She feeds with her patience. She's got used to that. Can't stand not being milked. She's big. She's marked by nature with her size. And there are pictures on her body. Like on a globe, there are kind of continents. And oceans. She's interesting to look at. She's static like a gallery and functional like a snack bar. She's eternal due to that. And convenient. She's justified her existance. I have put her into a landscape covering this very landscape with her body. Except the sun. She irritates with her slowness. Her cowardice is understood as there's much to loose. Her stupidity is harmonious. This is not discussed as the mouth is busy drinking milk. When drinking is over there's no desire to talk. No longer hungry. That's the law of nature.

 It's the cock who protests. He's brighter than the sun. He's also lonely.
The pig is far from the sun. She's not so lonely as she's got lots of things: a dream, and hope. She's in the dirt but she's always right. She doesn't do anything and doesn't stand out. That's why she's right. Her protest is just soft grunting.
It's the cock who shouts. And this is his wish. He has to stand out. By a loud scream. By bright colours. By shouting from a mob or by a jerk at the traffic lights. He has to protest while proudly leading the hens and attracting the attention. Or blinking with headlights to the back of those who grumble too weakly. The hens need him and he needs the hens. This is his small legal right. HIS right. He has to be like that before he's needed for the soup. The pig is not nervous. She has justified her dirt. By searching for spots on the others. Or by thinking “Everybody lives like that!”
And still she wishes, they all wish for the better. They moo, bleat, crow or stay silent. But keep on wishing. And stay as they are as everything remains its normal course. They wait and live with the only idea of this anticipation, depend on it as there's nothing bigger and stronger.