Duroc Pigs Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

In the seventies
we raised those durocs,
their colour brown
but otherwise the same.
When time came -wow,
to get the Python
and all the knives
that had been sharpened,
weeks ahead.
One shot it took,
then cut the live carotid
make sausage, spicy
right at that precise
and dizzy moment.
Blood Sausage,
yes, it is the pig's pyjamas,
and stuff the sausage
into casings of
their cousins.
All Germans love
the porcine products,
all its flavours
We love the mince
that pork tatare
which means raw pork.
And in Australia
we go hunting
for wild pigs.
The world is eating
what the Gods
have always wanted.