Porkopolis

Herding Swine

• Dangerous, them lot,
• They root around and mark the ground,
• And every sound they make's
• Both meaningless and clear.
•  
• Their familiar skin,
• And the shape they're in
• Seem natural enough
• But fear, a moment's concentration loss
• Could cost a finger, dear.
•  
• Their appetite's eclectic,
• Their unrestricted taste
• Would take our prudish manners
• And gobble them, in haste.
•  
• Yet, if in herds you pen them,
• On 'mast or meadow bloom
• Their startling backs will gleam in rows
• Against the gathering gloom.
•  
• Satisfied, their shapes will hold,
• Eternally, they say,
• The last, pink glowing memory
• Of every sunny day.