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If the town celebrates
his roasting
it's their right. He's their hog.
He's pork now.
His life in the mash has gone sour.
The bad fairy presides
over his crispy feet.
The prodigal has come back
and does not need
such company.
Now the fires licks this one all over.
Now the fire is giving its best
hog massage. Who will
eat this toasty face?
Corn-fed hog is sweet,
but sweet as a dog to the prodigal,
he's pork now.
And he cannot know better next time.
He cannot cry to the prodigal:
You, little one, shod
in your doubts,
run along to your gorgeous friends!
He cannot cry:
Let me see your back!
He's pork now.
So we can kiss—if we want—
his blarney lips.
So? So we're home,
barely edible,
lonely with the whole town.
So no one's lonely in hog heaven.
No one's got cooked feet.
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