Saturday, 5 February 2011

GOD HELP THE SAINT FOR WHOM THE PIGLING DOES NOT SQUEAK

The Devil, who envies all that’s good,
Knowing I wouldn’t be expecting
A lap-dancing pigling,
Smuggled in hips and lipsticks
Bosoms &co.
And from somewhere unlikely,
A long blonde wig.
He had you trottering about
on four-inch heels.
You always wanted to please, Piggles.
Diobolically transmogrified
you were my salami Salome,
my marzipan Messalina,
Plump and pink.
Seven veils was it?I wasn’t counting.

You swayed like a pork belly-dancer,
I was not unimpressed. I was sore tempted.
You threw your trotters round my saintly knees:
I love you, I love you, I love you,
The Devil’s karaoke in my ear.
The illusion was complete and
I, damned-near damned,
Was fooled stiff.
All would have been lost if you had not sort of grunted.
Your high pitched grunt, squeak, squeal
no deep-throated houri ever made.
You put me on my guard.
The scales fell
You were yourself again and I was mine
I was a saint. You were the pig in the wig
Whose dancing nobody wanted.
The Devil departed roaring
The way he does.

Whats left of you, Piggles, and your unwanted dance
now you are so dead?
A dusty veil, your pretty G-string,
These blonde locks.

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