Little Pig - Poem by Ruth Walters
He said he could not stand her accent,
her giggle was just like a drill
and would she refrain from her droning,
her chatter was making him ill.
She looked at him sweetly and smiled,
tipped up the soup in his lap
and just as the waiter came over
the restaurant all started to clap.
Then she told him his suit was quite aging,
his trousers were tight at the crotch,
his foul breath had melted the candles,
and he'd hands like a navvy, too rough.
The little pigs face went quite grey then,
his ego had shrivelled and gone,
so he got up and ran as little pigs can
and went wee, wee, wee,all the way home.
Comments about Little Pig by Ruth Walters
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl