The Talking Pig Story

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!

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