Porkopolis

Bagged

• A little pig once lived its life
• In Erin’s lovely isle.
• Indifferent to party strife
• It wore a constant smile.
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• It roamed or slept the livelong day
• And sought repose at night;
• From food it never turned away
• But gulped it down at sight.
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• It swallowed all that came its way,
• Consuming it with greed;
• And nought its appetite could stay
• Or yet disturb its feed.
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• It chewed old clothes and ate old boots,
• And more inside it packed,
• Results of never ending loots,
• When other food it lacked.
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• In course of time the porker died —
• Beneath the butcher’s knife.
• Nor was its hunger satisfied
• E’en at the end of life.
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• For mark, they stripped it of its hide,
• To make a bag of leather,
• And in this manner occupied,
• It keeps its traits together.
•  
• Whate’er it can its swallows still,
• Good food it loves to munch
• When someone brings, when cash is nil,
• Some sandwiches to lunch.
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• Yet still as in the days of yore
• Its appetite ne’er ceases,
• Though sides should bulge it craves for more,
• Its hunger but increases.
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• It gulps down books and kindred stuff,
• Old clothes or Sunday suits,
• And Saturdays, when fare is rough,
• It swallows football boots.