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Ian Bowen
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.
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Clever! This poem really brings home the bacon! -chuck (Report) Reply
hahah i loved this little ditty..it made me giggle. It's rare to find poem that's clever and silly and makes ya smile just to smile! It seems we forget what poetry can mean sometimes (including myself) ! Most poets either need an antidpressant, are channeling god or are smoking a whole lot of wacky stuff - potentially all three. Thank you. -Go get em wolfy...(muha) . I do so love a good pork chop! (Report) Reply
To Market, to market,
To buy a fat pig.... (Report) Reply