Once, me mets a calico and piebald, patchy pig,
(her brown body brindled brown, with brown upon her brow)
and leanin’ ‘gainst the sty, me notice: she lay rather big,
this mono-pigment piggy queen, this porky, tubby sow.
Then roll she over – on third try – by trotters in to dig,
and land so lardly with a squelch, and face me, saying “Now!
you spindly man, it’s rude to stand there oglin’ like a twig!
Do throw some pods, or off with you, I’m not some red-light Frau!”
Well, red me turns and, bets you sure, me fumbles for a twig
to make as like me hasn’t stared, and’s only seen her now.
But dids she buy it? Not one bit! Oh, what a hole to dig,
(when all me meants was wond’rin’ at this solid skewbald sow
with patches matchin’ brown to brown – and never mind she’s big.)
Well anyways, me legs it quick t’pub and wipes me brow
and ends up drinkin’ pints and preachin’ ’bout yon… talkin’ pig!
Joe Spring writes 