The Pig That Worshipped Pot Noodles

The Pig That Worshipped Pot Noodles

He found them stacked in a careless shed,

bright little tubs with a promise of salt,

and from that moment his mind was led,

to a hunger no farmer could ever halt.

He sniffed the air with a dreamy sigh,

as steam would curl like a whispered spell,

and though the trough was always nearby,

it never held what he loved so well.

He learned the rustle of plastic lids,

the kettle’s growl, the waiting game,

while other pigs chased mud as kids,

he chased that strange and savoury flame.

A slurp, a grin, a noodle string,

dangling proud from his greedy chin,

he stood like some contented king,

while chaos softly stirred within.

For once he knocked the kettle wide,

and flooded straw with broth so thin,

yet even then he squealed with pride,

and licked the warmth from where he’d been.

So let them laugh at his curious need,

this pig with tastes so oddly grand,

for joy is joy, in thought or feed,

and he has found his promised land.

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