A Third Helping Of Pork Poem by Ian Bowen

Charging across the grasslands,
having blown down the houses
made of straw and wood, he nears
the brick one.

Green shines in his eyes.
drool drips from his blood-red jaw,
and his hackles stand erect
on his bony shoulders.

He knew huffing and puffing
would be a futile exercise-
so he never bothered.
He just waited his time.

Through the window of the brick house,
some swine poked fun at him,
with gestures of cloven hoofs
and facial contortions.

Untouched at the abuse
he would simply wait until tomorrow;
for Thursday was market day,
and no way, was this one
going to get to...

run all the way home.