Swine Script
You call it a bond,
I call it a tether—
a hog‑tie dressed up as poetry.
The lash sings, the rope bites,
and suddenly loyalty
looks a lot like livestock.
In the pigpen of verse
you root with your snout:
penning like a pig,
penned like a pig,
inking the sty
with squeals and scratchings.
Swine, hog, porker, boar—
your lexicon a butcher’s bill,
each word a cleaver,
each stanza a sausage casing.
And still, you parade it as art,
this muck‑splattered manuscript,
garlanding the sow with pearls
only to watch her roll them in dung.
The bond, you say, is sacred.
I say it’s bacon waiting for the pan.
.