Here it is readers, the latest Hog Poetry.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the hogs
That root round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The reticule illuminate, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be swine, or gloom o'ercast;
They always must be with us, and hogs die.
Carry on,
LSP
6 comments:
It's not right to post Hillary's photo (above) in connection with hog poetry. Ok, but it's not necessarily wrong either.
I never knew that there was hog poetry until now.
You philosophical swine!
I do like a good bit of hog poetry, Juliette.
Hog poetry's a lot of fun, LL. Have a go!
Without hogs there is no bacon. Be still my beating heart.
Adrienne, I love bacon.
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