Three Little Pigs

i'm not much of a poet (i never was and don't really think of becoming one), but here's a poem i found myself jotting down in panic after watching a documentary on how pigs are slaughtered where i come from. i wrote it in less than fifteen minutes in feverish haste, i reckon, as the words simply poured out of me. i guess most of my better poems are born that way: effortlessly.
- vincent pido


Three Little Pigs

Three little pigs
are playing in the pen,
running,
and jumping
all around the den.

Three little pigs
are cuddling to the sow
suckling,
and huddling
safe at least for now.

Three little pigs
are loaded in the truck,
farewell
to the mother
bathing in the muck.

Three little pigs
are in the slaughterhouse,
filthy,
and scary
all around dead cows.

Three little pigs
are pounded on the head
electrocuted,
stabbed,
soon they’ll be dead.

Three little pigs
are down on the floor,
bleeding,
and screaming,
and bleeding some more.

Three little pigs
are pounded on the head,
disoriented
and in pain
of course they’ll be dead.

Three little pigs
are down on the floor,
happiness,
happiness,
There’ll be pork chop in the stores!