Cows
look like little plastic toys
(one got free in breakfast cereal boxes
back in the 50’s & 60’s)
as we speed crawlingly by
Stonehenge.
And then picking up speed
for...hurray...real
We find
out interest taken
by a large and sprawling
pig farm
where pig after pig
(for field after field)
wallows in being
a pig
making pigs
of themselves.
Big pigs
with little Anderson type shelters
for housing or
feeding stations
or in case someone drops the bomb
on their bums
so many pigs
just lying around us as if dead
or as Janice
in cool shades said:
“Practising being
bacon! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem