Where hangs the skin of pigs
Mauve as old woman pelt.
Shriek stout bread drippings
Mother in the kitchen pen
Odes to flower pork rhymes.
The dust of table pudding
Scented by dank fen wisps
Smoulder in the rusty mire;
Father the quiet pig hunter
Lazy proud into the routine,
Fat thumb in old breeches.
Stout black chimney walk
His corrugated iron lung.
Three fag lipped men grunting
Grime irks and of leg ache
The dank hoary pig house.
Three hook pale limp corpses
Ailing ears and a shriek-less
Moist snout pile wet with ants.
Damp ailing cottage stove
Broil swine squealing cries
Softly hangs the skin of pig
The cliquey of death throws
Artful sludge a mime in parts
Fathers too bovine grinning
Where now hangs the pig skin?
