Hog Poetry!

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

Vicarious Swine

"It was either a pig or a doe. I shot the pig, perhaps because it seemed like an enemy," said my philisophical ally, and I have to agree. Spare the doe, shoot the porcuswine!

I won't say I'm not jealous.

Good shot,

LSP