Pigs love the dried mud drop
On a grunt, up in the splattering rain drop, drops.
Prodigious in swallowing as they hog their want
Made lean bacon
In the kitchen slop and, stomaching no complaint,
Proceeded to assail
The seven troughed seas and every shallow depression.
Old Mr. Digby kept pigs, ten little ones
In his barnyard off Drury Terrace;
Butchers oft made queries
On hearing their neighbor’s pigs grunt,
Saying: Something is hoggish in a farmer who accommodates
That many squalors.
Sun faced red as a pickled beet, his raspy voice
Had long gone to seed, Mr. Digby
For no good reason
Plays host to chester, duroc, and increase,
With table scraps and cabbage feasting the palates
Of fastidious pigs.