Pigamy

It is humorous now I see if I had brought down that wiring
That extension cord for the lighting in the pig pen and hung
Myself with it then the pigs would've objected the shipping
Of my corpse to Manila, because the pigs know they want
The way things are, every morning with the bucket carried
Not kicked, full, not empty, my head attached to my body
And my voice a sonorous call to breakfast as the pigs bid
With a squeal and a knorr for food and drink and a booty
Of apples and castanels and water spinach and avocados
And coconuts, the occasional soursop a fave of the boars.

I have a soul that will not have known what has transpired
In the twilight carrying the body now a corpse from my bed
Where they have laid me to rest but restless and unexpired
An automatic conduct of behaviour programmed by said
Pigs in my practise and devotion to them surely the bucket
Could not have carried itself to the sties with determination
Of its own nor the mental tenacity of hungry pigs snouts wet
Ears up, their eyes a gentle sentient mirror of our very own
Hearts, and this quite simply is what keeps me in the swine
Inhabited land of the living with a purpose porcine divine.

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Photo - Not Going to be Bacon