The first part can be found here.http://open.salon.com/blog/fernsy/2010/05/22/pig_poetry_for_my_peeps
The Pigs possibility- part two
But that didn’t conclude our hapless swine's tale
At the job previously mentioned
She did fail
Lou had been jailed for tax evasion
So our pig could not rely on his help
on this occcasion.
In the interim our pig read some self help book
Which sold her on being persistent
She went on craigslist and got a job
as an Administrative Assistant.
Typing, word processing, filing
But, her boss wanted
the pig to do these mundane tasks, smiling.
The pig was no phony,
In fact, she was committed to the organic
the frown wouldn't turn upside down
-our pig began to to panic.
Complaining was bad
Still, she did
Behave, she counseled herself- you are no longer a kid
Ah, those were the days. Playgrounds and swings,
Not wanting the day to end.
If someone liked the same color that was enough
to make them a friend.
Poetic thoughts of lost days
would have to be a short short faze:
she feigned calm, swiveled in her hard seat,
and opened the-
She didn’t know what to do
She readied her pink ears for his angry oink
and for her mood to turn blue.
This time she got "lucky."
The boss was distracted
on the phone with his gardener, Bucky.One day at an unhappy hour
she had too many pigtails with her another cow worker
The details are painful
Our pig got sloppy drunk, and proceeded to confide things
that stopped this employment from being gainful.
How could she have known her cow worker
was sleeping with the boss?
She stomped her hoof, and felt very much at a loss.
The job that Lou got her(see part 1) also lacked enjoyment
But this time when the boss told her services were no longer needed,
she qualified for unemployment!!
This time she concluded
She’d use this time
To find a way to be a pig of letters
She knew that she’d always had an easy time
With the rhyme
Dare she say, finesse with metaphor and simile(sim-ih-lee)
Aa, Ha, she our renassaince swine
would try her hoof at poetry
Our pig wrote poems
and send them to the New Yorker
They wrote back
and said" real poems don’t rhyme, you porker"
She wrote back that to ignore such sublime rhyme
would be a crime
They send a form letter saying, “better luck next time,”
What road should she travel, and at what cost?
Still ,she'd try to be the porcine Robert frost
But rejection slips soon overtook her pen
She just wanted to make enough to survive
Not to be Shakespeare.
In the middle of this train of thought,
about not being the Bard
There was a knock at the door- she knew who;
The damned Landlard
He only stopped by when he wanted the rent,
she had to get the money somehow
too many wolves and other white meat lovers-
to feel safe in a tent..
To be cowtinued.
Pigtorials available upon request.