The first part can be found here.

 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-

Excel spreadsheet.

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.

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;

Oh no-

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.