A porcine aborigine,
He has no trace of foreign blood.
His ancestors were wild and free
British pigs in British mud.
He’s a hardy, outdoor type,
Who’s never heard of central heating.
He doesn’t whine, he doesn’t gripe
But, strong and silent, goes on eating.
This piggy has a pedigree
That goes way back on Midlands farms.
If she could read her family tree,
She might design a coat of arms.
But she knows nothing of her line,
And lives like any other sow,
Taking care of little swine,
Imprisoned in the here and now.
A fine white pig of goodly size,
He roots and gobbles from the ground
But when he tries to look around,
His lop ears droop across his eyes.
He doesn’t know the world is big
And beautiful. He doesn’t try
To wander. He’s an easy pig,
Content to stay within his sty.
If you want to go away
On a summer holiday
And take your pig, make no mistake,
A Tamworth Red’s the pig to take.
A pig whose skin is very fair
Will use up all your Ambre Solaire,
And need a hat, and cause concern,
But Tamworths very seldom burn.
If you should meet an Orkney Boar
A-roaming on an Orkney moor,
Beware. This savage little porker
May attack the English walker.
A pig of pigs. If free to scoff,
He’ll seldom leave the feeding-trough,
Expanding till he’s almost static
And procreation’s problematic.
And that, I guess, is why the breed
By now is very rare indeed.
Walking Rorschach tests, Old Spots
Have pure white skin with inky blots
But do not show an interest
In asking what the shapes suggest.
Once the standard of perfection
By which other pigs were judged –
Lovely figure, great complexion
Even when her face was smudged.
Just imagine the dejection
As her rivals’ owners trudged
To fatstock show and prize inspection,
Knowing she could not be budged.
There isn’t very much to write –
I only know he’s large and white.
In Dorset in the days of old
There lived a pig whose hide was gold –
Friendly, beautiful, and charming,
Unsuitable for modern farming.
It can’t be helped. The world moves on
And all the golden pigs are gone.