The Pig
There was an old man who lived on my street
His life was quite jolly with plenty to eat
He lived with his wife and she wore a blonde wig
And they owned a small, humble, brown, pot-bellied pig
They took it for walks when the weather was stable
They fixed it a chair to sit up to their table
But for all of their efforts, whether good, fair, or bad
The humble, brown pot-bellied pig would look sad
They gave it a room with a canopied bed
A T.V., a bicycle, skis, and a sled
A stereo player, a tub full of bubbles
But never a smile did they get for their troubles
At Christmas the pig had a truck full of presents
Like a gorgeous plumed hat with the feathers of pheasants
A Latakian hooka, and a silver Rolls Royce,
A magpie who sang with an operatic voice
A tenor guitar by Paulino Bernabe
Some tea from Cathay, a tall English Bobby
But none of their presents, tiny or big
Would bring even ghost of a smile to this pig
They saved up their money and sent him to college
In hopes that some joy could be found gaining knowledge
When that didn't work he shipped off to Peru
But this poor pig Machu Picchu made blue
So did Antarctica, Attica, Axum, Amsterdam,
Nowhere and nothing brought joy to this ham.
And so, to borrow a phrase from a poem,
This pig went "wee, wee, wee, all the way home!"
But then one Tuesday, quite normal and boring
The old folks were napping with soft, even snoring
An epiphany came to our angst-ridden pig
He happened to notice the old lady's blond wig
He tiptoed up to the wig on the bedstead
And placed it upon brown fuzz on his head
And THEN what do you THINK? What could be clearer?
Methinks this small pig took a peek in the mirror.
Oh! What joy! How Stylish! How glam!
This beautiful porcum ven-tri-osus parvam!
Or so thought this pig newly rid of the blues
And his singing awoke the old folks from their snooze.
And they all lived quite happily there ever after
In a house full of feasting, and the music of laughter
I urge you in earnest, foreswear, don't renege
Buy a wig for your humble brown pot-bellied pig
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