Hell, well, what is this all about?
I mean life, Piggles.
There's something fetching in a home address
Which saint or poet
Or pigling has immortalized,
Conscious that queues of silly pigrims (sic)
Might one day just make the effort.
So here, in Sinai, at the Hermitage,
I lay your curly trail
And mine.
Would that be arrogance, presumption or simply bounce?
Here you ran snuffling like you were truffling.
I knew that you were searching madly for
Your lost long Mummy and not finding her.
Not surprising I thought, for she long had been
Transumed to sausages and chops and ham
Black-puddings, streaky-bacon and the rest,
And not surprising for she long had been
Eaten mostly.
I loved you maugre your ugly Nubian snout,
Your piggy eyes that proved you were no film-star,
Your torn ear, hope you don’t mind
Me mentioning that ear again,
Your hairy nostrils and your rubber bum.
I kissed you and I held you in my arms.
I took you to my bed, but, let’s be clear,
No saint I know would ever turk a pig.
Nor did I neither.
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