The Pig's Pocket Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The piper has a new song blowing
Like the studious wind against the pedagogical sea,
Waking up the smooth red-lipped clams
Who are nakedly hypnotized and
Come square-dancing off the cusp
Of waves,
The apartments vacated like beautifying compacts,
The alabasters of derelict cells.

The Walrus and The Carpenter,
Over-bloated on stock-market shares,
Their lips lined with corpulent slime,
Their glutting sink-holes burping gaseous
Bushels of commodities,
Come courting the shore like
Azure swine who use their tarnished-badges
To skip the line queuing up to
The muddied trough,
Trampling the working-class
Trodden and malnourished at feeding time.

Ministers of finance, occupied by
Each others’ wind-bag charms,
In trickling smiles of their shared society,
Dressed identical and devouring beyond
The speed limit of pious good health,
Finagle the virginal sea-creatures
Unprotected into their clotty gullets,
Where all does perish save for
The Piper’s flighty tune, whose prints
Continue their molesting cadence
Along the alchemic shores,
As he is followed a step behind by the
The lawyers and their politicians,
A herd of unclean animals invading
The ark at suppertime,
For the artist is in the pig’s pocket,
With a gun pointed at the back
Of his head
Marching to an unmarked grave.