Sunday, 15 May 2011


A good Sowe was ther of bisyde Bathe,
But she had lost her tayl and that was scathe.
Lusty she was, with hipes large of caste
And nipples ech more lufsom than the laste.’
That sort of thing. I spouted and your snout
Hardly flickered.
It’s Geoffrey Porker, Piggles,
Seminal pig-poet.
You munched your turnip and you did not care
For literature.
It rhymes. I said.
I waved my arms and gave
My sostenuto rendering of Porker
The all, but you were not impressed.
You might have been
Ted, the late lugubrious donkey
Who turned the screw,
For all the fun you were.

Was that my first moment
Of flagitious thought,
I loved you, Piggles,
Enough to eat you?

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