“ballad of the piggies”

There’s a pig boiling blood
beneath the basement stairs.
She stirs the soup with her hoof.
There’s a pig boiling blood
to feed her little ones—
who are playing outside
in the mud.

When it drizzles in the sun,
all her little ones
dance tiptoed,
their ears all wet.
Like bacon in a pot of boiling blood,
they sing London Bridges
without falling down.

narrative poem written on 07-02-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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