Written in defence of my pet pig (with apologies to WS) when other family members were advocating spit roasting her:
My piggy’s eyes are nothing like the sun.
If eyes be limpid pools, why then her eyes be
Two small muddy puddles, that daylight shun,
So mud encrusted she can hardly see.
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head,
And on her body from paint-brush tail
To whiskered snout, wuffling to be fed.
Her breath comes warm, puffing moist and stale,
And in any perfume there is more delight.
Yet when she leans against me, her bulky frame,
– and though she causes some to run in fright –
I know that she, at heart, is kind and tame.
My pig, by heaven, is beyond compare
To any roast dinner, crispy or rare.