deepundergroundpoetry.com
Three Swine Wait
Three swine wait for me in their pen,
fat, happy and soiled within.
Beneath a dusty, shameless sky
without a moon or passerby.
How easy it is in my mind,
to sneak up on them from behind,
and in a fit of tempered rage,
whip them till they all behave.
So swearing are their sweaty jowls,
so scathing all their stubborn howls,
vengeful, scornful, without thought,
driving themselves where I not.
Late at night, I dig three pits,
tossed in each a bloody spit,
and ‘neath the hollow, moonless night
I send upon the pigs my plight.
Threat of pitchfork on their heel,
I hear the ugly monsters squeal.
As they tumble, broken limbs,
their crudest snouts attempting hymns,
for moments first in pitied strife
the three will fear then for their life.
No louder, more tormenting brews
I’ve ever heard from three sinews.
And laugh I did for days of peace
as one by one they each decease.
A quiet, lovely world I make,
without noise for silence sake,
and when a sound does rip the ear,
it is not one that’s foul to hear.
And yet, an echo still unsightly
of the three pigs, short and mighty,
still does rattle in my brain
and keep me ever sullied same.
For there is no less lasting mark
than of a foulness caught to heart.
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