self-deprecation

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.

.