Pig Farm

Nine years ago swine flu kissed the farm,
Obliging Virginia Hambone to stand firm
Against the public use of mucky troughs
Which was causing the trots and coughs.

Pigs were ordered to remain in their sties
And baptize their trotters to avert demise.
Sty-to-sty sales sows solicited salty swill.
A barn was set for the expired and the ill.

Penlife was instinctive and fit like a glove:
Arguments preceding the making of love.
Flu had purged the tracks of all the swine
And the air sweetened from their decline.

Presently wild boar sauntered by, in thrall
To the intoxicating scent of nothing at all.
Unusual not to spot that superior species
Of Hog wash in their finer forms of feces.

Now the suaver swine was to vent spleen:
“ Quarantine is just a breeding scheme.”
They yearned to wander the fields again,
To grunt in unison and filthen the terrain.

The Council said it was still testing drugs,
So pigs pigging out must wear anal plugs.
“ The virus is passed on through the rear –
You will save your bacons if you adhere.”

They squealed as akin to human protestors
And met in sheds to abuse the Councilor’s –
To no avail! Inside the butt was fit a bung:
They could now only wallow in oral dung.

Eventually this beastly disease flew away
And a boom of piglets scuttled out to play.
Adults oinked back into the ways of afore,
While uncivilized boar were seen no more.

Saul Huggins‘ life up to 2014, both professional or otherwise, had little contact with any form of writing or the Arts in general.  In that year he met Q,  his muse from the next town who inspired him to think a little differently. He began writing poems in 2020.