Elegy for a Dead Pig
For Mr. Large |  by Chris Willmore

Upon a stool a roast pig lies.
He looks at me with vacant eyes;
His glum expression cursing Fate
That leaves his carcass on a plate.

An apple fills his rubb'ry lips
On which, Too Soon!  A schoolboy nips.
Where once they showed his changing mood,
Those that once fed, are now turned food.

What happened to his trotting gait?
(Those legs of his are to be ate.)
What is to happen to his belly?
(You ign'rant fool! Think of pork jelly.)

I raised my knife to carve the beast
And thought of the impending feast
When suddenly the pig, though weak,
Proved to the world that he could speak:

"I will not stand for this ill praise.
Though cooked, I will not end my days
As molar-fodder for a boy
Who treats me as I were a toy."

With that, he up and left the plate
Both silent-mouthed, and full of hate.
He dragged his rump across the floor
And exited right through the door.

I do not know where that hog went;
He wrote me not, no info sent;
But where he is, I hope he stays.
I do not like his vocal ways.

To me, my dinner should stay still:
It should be MINE, have NO FREE WILL.
When dead it comes, dead it should go
right into my intestine low.