Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Ocra rose, favoring her left leg. She seemed unsteady, both on her feet and inside. In her heart and stuff. Sriracha budged up beside her, aiming to be a bastion of support and comfort. They were partners, and that was what partners did. They were pillars to support one another. Ocra claimed that she was okay, but Sriracha wasn't convinced. Yeah, okay, he said, not sounding very convincing himself. 

Who is this dickhead? Sriracha whispered before deciding better of it and directed the question to the white interloper. Hey, dickhead, who are you, huh? Como te llama? He bounced on his feet, ready to spring into action in case this yet unnamed wolf decided he was itching for a fight. Sriracha believed that he hadn't tripped Ocra, but he was the one chasing her. Which, all things considered, was very rude.