piggies write poems
by supporting the green earth
with their pungent poop
Author unknown
Hate to burst bubble...
Heart not really from dead wife
But from donor pig.
by Ming Fu
pigs cover their tracks
calling down the snows of March
heinous crimes concealed
by Richard Frank
cries swallowed by winter's gray
wayward soul meets icy fate
pigs are on the prowl
by Fred Smith
A scream and a splash
A shadow retreats upstream
A single cry, "Oink!"
by Matt Jorgensen
the great bard himself almost staged "Edward's Third Pig" Here's the opening.
Act 1, Scene 1
A stye behind King Edward's manor house
Enter PORCINI (the King's third pig), solus
PORCINI
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sum of pork;
And all the lard that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our bowels filled with victorious slop;
Our bruised hams hung up for admiration;
Our stern squels changed to merry meatings,
Our dreadful cries to delightful sausage.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He fishes nimbly at the water's edge
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made well to cast a slender wooded pole .
Nay, I am rudely stamp'd, CHOICE, and wait his majesty
To claim my hocks and cheeks for his own pleasures;
I, that am curtail'd of fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, and unfish'd, sent before my time
To the slaughter house, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to drop my bottom in the mud
And descant on mine own enormity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a clever fisher,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a swine
And hate the idle pleasures of these ways.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brothers Clarence and Clarence upon the king
In deadly hate at the river's edge:
And if the wayward king be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence and Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Come my brothers.
by Richard Frank