EPTAmid the glory and the grime,
By magic or divine design
There dwelt a flock of flying swine.
The city hungered for attractions,
Providing them with ample gigs,
And money flowed from all directions
To airborne capitalist pigs.
Alas, they spurned their vet’s advice
By pigging out two times a day,
Indulging their inherent vice
Within the Rio’s grand buffet.
And thus the city’s winged delight
Had grown too corpulent for flight.
They called a final consultation.
“You’ll die – or diet!” said the vet.
So: sated death or live starvation?
A grim, lugubrious regret
Pervaded hearts and dampened eyes;
They’d sooner take a quick demise.
The leader nodded at the others
And uttered, “Hark, my porky brothers!
We’ve led a long and joyful life
Of plenty, luxury, and peace,
So let us grace the butcher’s knife
With tender meat, with fragrant grease,
And when the flags descend the mast,
We’ll grant a sumptuous repast.”
They died. The city weeps, forlorn,
Upon a somber, mournful morn.
When even sin has lost appeal,
The sky is sliced by whirling steel.
The choppers, full of chefs, prepare;
The scent of grease imbues the air.
They flit about as they supply -
Like manna - bacon from the sky!
Wherever bits of bacon strike,
Adventists, Muslims, Jews alike
In blissful blasphemy opine:
The Lord has erred regarding swine...
[The author’s pen has been forsaken
In favor of delicious bacon.]
