Laments
Contented with my earthly lot,
My soul rejoicing sings
Until I gaze into the sky—
Then through my mind there rings
That saddest of all earthly thoughts:
Why do not pigs have wings?
When unimportant birds and bugs
And bats and other things
Can soar and wheel and flit, and know
The joy that flying brings—
Why is the pig denied the air?
Why do not pigs have wings?
My feet must stay upon the ground
In all my wanderings.
Yet still desire fills all my heart
With anxious questionings—
If even men have learned to fly,
Why can’t this pig have wings?
When life’s at its darkest and everything’s black,
I don’t want my friends to come patting my back.
I scorn consolation, can’t they let me alone?
I just want to snivel, sob, bellow, and groan.
There’s pleasure in weeping, a joy in despair;
There’s a great satisfaction in tearing my hair.
Don’t tell me I’m handsome: I want to be plain;
I don’t want the sunshine; I want it to rain.
Why can’t my friends see, when I’m feeling so low,
That the lower I get, then the higher I’ll go
Later on. For before you can rise, you must drop;
If you haven’t hit bottom, you can’t reach the top.
For the way to be helpful to those who are down
Is not to be merry and act like a clown,
But to look on the dark side, and groan, and predict
That ruin impends, and they’re finally licked.
So when I feel awful, just point out my faults,
Don’t try to console me and ask me to waltz.
Just tell me I’m stupid, convince me I’m sick,
Assert that my skull is some four inches thick.
And then pretty soon when you’ve got me below
The point where my misery’d normally go,
I’ll begin to feel better; I’ll shake off my woes,
And I’ll haul off and give you a sock on the nose.
By which you will know that your duty is done.
It may have been painful—may not have been fun;
But though flat on your back, with your nose in a sling,
You’re satisfied, knowing you’ve done the right thing.
When I was a piglet, the grass was much greener,
Always looked as if it had just come from the cleaner,
And life was much gayer, in so many ways.
Ah, those were the days!
Now I’m old, and my joints are increasingly creaky;
My hearing is poor, and my memory’s leaky;
And I weep as I put down these sad little rhymes.
Ah, those were the times!
In my youth, I was always prepared for a frolic;
I never had pains, rheumatism or colic;
I never had aches: head, stomach or tooth.
Ah, the days of my youth!
Look on me, mournfulest of pigs!
Ye birds, sit silent on your twigs;
Sing not to me of joy and glee, restrain your merry carols!
My eyes are dim, my nose is red,
Because of all the tears I’ve shed—
And I shall keep on shedding them, in pints and quarts and barrels.
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I care not for these sunny hills,
This garden, bright with laughing rills;
Grim desert wastes best suit my tastes, or cellars, damp and dismal.
I like to sob, I love to weep.
I even snivel in my sleep,
And when I wake, make no mistake, my grief is still abysmal.
And so I sit upon this shore
And weep and moan and howl and roar
Because I hate to contemplate a scene so bright and cheery.
I’ll turn my back on joy and pomp
And seek me out a deep dark swamp
Where all the sights are blots and blights, and all the sounds are dreary.
And there within that quaking bog,
Enveloped in unwholesome fog.
Alone I’ll sit, enjoying it, while black bats flit and tumble;
There’ll be no sound except the plop
Of steady tears that drip and drop
From off my nose into the ooze where alligators grumble.
I’d rather be within that swamp
Than out where children play and romp;
I hear the bullfrogs calling me, the marsh fires gleam and beckon.
Oh, there I’ll go—yes, there I’ll go,
Where I can fill my soul with woe.
No more I’ll roam, for my true home is in a swamp, I reckon.
Chorus
So I weep (sniff, sniff),
So I cry and sob and moan,
In the deep (sniff, sniff)
Dark swamp I’ll be alone.
Men call the dog the friend of man
And praise him for his deep devotion,
And yet the pig is capable
Of love as deep as any ocean.
“Bold as a lion,” people say,
“Strong as a horse”—pigs too have strength
And in defense of justice, they
Will go to almost any length.
Yet who has ever heard it said
That pigs are brave, that pigs are bold,
That pigs are handsome quadrupeds
With wills of iron and hearts of gold?
“Fat as a pig” the saying goes;
“Pig-headed,” “dirty as a pig”;
Each reference, in verse or prose,
To pigs contains a dirty dig.
I demand justice for the pig!
No more shall he be stigmatized
By adjectives, both small and big,
So vulgar and unauthorized.
O pigs, arise and prove your worth,
Assert your honesty and charm;
Let kindly, clean and polished pigs
Abound on every ranch and farm.
Let “pig” no longer be a word
Applied with snorts and sniffs and jeers;
Let pigs be proud of being pigs
As peers are proud of being peers.
Justice! Justice for the pig!
Let every pig in every pen
Lift up his voice, assert his rights
As one of nature’s noblemen.
The dog can wag his tail and bark
To show what he thinks of you;
And the cat can purr when you smooth his fur,
But what can the poor pig do?
He knows no stunts, and his piggish grunts,
And his loud and murderous squeals
Don’t really express true happiness,
Or tell you how he feels.
His voice, when low, is a groan of woe,
When loud, a despairing wail.
’Twouldn’t be so bad if he only had
A decently waggable tail.
A waggable tail, with which to hail
His friends, with which to greet
In a dignified way, with a flourish gay,
Those whom he chanced to meet.
A tail to wave in a manner grave—
Graceful, stately and slow,
Would, I quite expect, command respect
That the tailless seldom know.
A lesson which we all must learn
Is this: without complaint
To be ourselves, and not to yearn
To be that which we ain’t.
If cats had wings, and cows had claws
And pigs had shaggy pelts,
You’d never know your friends, because
They’d look like someone else.
Then be content with what you’ve got
And do not weep and wail,
For the leopard cannot change his spots
Nor the pig his curly tail.
The wheels are where the cart is;
The jam is where the tart is;
And home is where the heart is,
But mine is far away.
I miss the dogs and chickens,
And Jinx and Mrs. Wiggins—
I miss them like the dickens,
Far more than I can say.
The wave is where the foam is;
The brush is where the comb is;
My heart is where my home is,
And that is with the Beans.
I am not one who flinches
When cold misfortune pinches,
But I would not like the Winches
Even if they were clean.
Through the night, through the dark, through the rain and sleet,
By hill and valley and plain,
Plods the wanderer pig, on weary feet,
And his tears they drip like rain.
And he sighs, and he moans, and his head bends low,
And his tail has come uncurled,
For he has neither mansion nor bungalow—
Not a home in the whole wide world.
Not a home, not a friend, no uncles or aunts,
No brothers or sisters or cousins—
(Not a coat, not a vest, not a pair of pants)*
Though happier pigs, as they sing and dance,
Have relatives by dozens.
For others, the lights in the window gleam,
For others the fried eggs sputter;
(For the pig, all puffed up with self-esteem,
A roll in the muddy gutter)*
For others, the coffee with lots of cream,
And the toast, with lots of butter.
* Lines suggested by Uncle Solomon, an owl. Not part of poem.
Nobody ever tells me;
Nobody lets me know.
Wars are fought and groceries bought
And people come and go,
But what is the use of being a Queen
To sit in a marble hall
If nobody tells you anything, anything,
Any-thing at all?
I want to know all the gossip
That all the courtiers know,
Who had a fight and stayed out all night
And who has a brand new beau.
But you sit on a throne and you’re all alone
And if anyone comes to call
They simply won’t tell you anything, anything,
Any-thing at all.
