Swine Lake

I saw swine, nine times nine,

Dancing on the telephone line.

Eighty-one pigs in tutus and tights

Performing amazing feats at dizzying heights.

A whirling, twirling, grand hog ballet,

Grunting and graceful those piggies plie´,

One two three, one two three, oink, pointe passe.

Then with a smattering, clattering of hooves

Those deft ballerinas leapt onto the rooves.

Some started to tap-dance, some started to Samba,

Some did the Frug, some did the Rumba,

Some did the Charleston, some did the Twist;

I rubbed both my eyes. Did this really exist?

I cried out in amazement, “Are you really for real?”

But they just danced faster and started to squeal.

At last they hopped down to the ground with a thud,

They wrinkled their snouts, they rolled in the mud.

They fought over hog-slop, they rested, they snored,

They acted like pigs, belligerent and bored.

Could these be the same creatures

Who pirouetted skyward only moments ago?

“Oui, oui,” they all snuffled

“So now you do know—

We may wear fancy costumes,

We may amaze you with style,

We may oink in French accents

But at the bottom of the pile

Pigs is just pigs, and that’s a plain fact,

Though you’ll have to admit

We’ve got a really good act.”

Then up they jumped , formed an impromptu chorus line,

And hoofed off toward the sunset, those sweltering swine,

Raising high a banner that said Sioux City or Bust

They left me there standing agog in the dust.

And if you’d been there you’d have been agog too.

But you weren’t so you’ll just have to believe me.

(Which I’m sure that you do)