I once knew a pig
called Albert,
who was a flyer,
(ever so proud of it)
and used to take-off
late at night for known fact,
even though there was
little bedroom for that.
Zoom; through the night,
flapped his wings
of probable bacon,
tender bacon, streaky bacon;
he pranced like a lamb
to then easily land.
Flip-flop, flip-flap,
pink, curly tailed,
flip-flap, flip-flop,
a piloted, pork chop.
The way he flew, hovered,
grilled by, I mean glided past
as I pulled duvet covers.
Yet when sleep beckoned,
tired of his oinks, acrobatics,
taking my rest second
by midnight second,
his nocturnal urge to glide
was admittedly discreet.
He was a thoughtful pig,
was our Albert,
aviator of rising flavour,
delicious on medium heat,
and though tasty in pork pie,
that pig could really fly!
Nb: I bet you’re thinking
that special, that flying pig
ended up lain on my plate.
But wait, this a plead,
don’t believe all that you read
or just currently learned,
at least as far as frying pigs
are concerned.
