1. I was prompted to develop your story somewhat:

    He never got to play the part of Joseph;
    He was one of those kids that nobody noticed.
    The type barely seen and more rarely heard;
    No innkeeper, Herod, nor second shepherd.

    And even though, inside, he knew he could sing,
    He never got to wear the crown of a king,
    Instead he would be Cow Number Four,
    A rock or a bauble, or the stable door.

    In the loosely stitched costume beneath floodlights a-glowing
    The lambs began bleating and those cattle were lowing;
    His hoof drifted sideways, unaware of the danger
    And little Lord Jesus tumbled out of the manger.

    The audience tittered, the head looked askance,
    He was part of a tableau, not expected to dance.
    The innkeeper hastened to lead off the cows,
    Whose impulsive foot movement had brought down the house.

    His mum scurried out, heading for the school gates
    And throughout the next term he was teased by his mates.
    Now forty years on, it still makes him wince,
    For it seems that his life has not changed much since.

    I hope you don’t mind.

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