I’m a Pig
I’m a pig of the pinkest variety,
with mud chosen just for my looks,
I’ve a penchant for scrag end of carrot,
and I drool over shepherds with crooks.
I lay sweetly in Bogland-by-Marshes,
staring up and the blueness of day,
there are few can compare when I’m eating,
every scrap, down to coal, put away.
Other creatures pass by with their scorning,
and that hay under roof doused in me,
smells incredibly luscious, I’m lovely,
as I wallow in royal-est wee.
But my scent is the best when it’s raining,
not a door will be closed when I’m there,
so yes, I do live in a pigsty,
and was born in a barn, so beware!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem