Saturday, 9 April 2011


I walked beside you
Beneath the fat round
Of moon. What is moon?
I tried to tell you it was
Not your Mummy
That it would not sit on your head.
You were the Piggy-wig from the Land where the Bong-tree grows,
Unwilling to sell your ring
And your squeaks
Were like bits of beetles and spiders
Spat out by cats or owls
No, probably not cats
Come to think of it.
And when the moon-shadow of a mangy
Desert-dog scared you silly.
How could I share with you
The butcher’s block you saw,
The saw you foresaw.
My! How you squeaked under the unpolarised light!
Some fine moonlit night, I thought, you might turn poet,
My little fat pigling with your Fran├žois Boucher bum.
My pretty odalisque Piggles, a pig poet
Who squeaks to the goddess.
How wrong I was!
But then, tell me!
Who needs pig poems?

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