Sunday, October 3, 2021

Bought the Farm



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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