As if it would be the death of me
and I cared little
about solving some riddle or
making some rhyme
like Old MacDonald
whose repetition
entertains only the
two little pigs
That sat in their sty
never wondering why-
the noise.
Getting high on their fermented
gluttonous filth made by
consummation and what has
been long ago
consumed.
Entombed as all of us were
by fences, gates, latitudes and gravity,
pathways are constantly Being made
into muddy ruts.
Here I was
set free to roam further than any oink
carries
on, unleashed
with a song
until death do us part where the grass
is deeper green, the air is sharply clean and there are no
twisted or barbed wires to snare and scare
yet one must tire of standing in muck
wet between the cloven hooves.
No less, it was my dumb luck
to have and to hold
no harm, no farm, no title
no hand.
No bacon was ever made
from pet pigs pacing their pen in purgatory.
Artwork by L. Prang & Co., copyright claimant, Domestic Pig' c. 1874 Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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