I remember seeing Pig being
killed when I was a wee lad.

It was my job to hold the bucket
and catch the blood for puddings.

The hind legs were tied like a
convict going to a jury trial.

Pig had no such luck, his fate
was decided by my grandfather.

No amount of entreaties or
squeals was going to get him off.

The rusted pulley on the rafter
made a similar sound.

That wasn't listened either and
the rope was red as a Cork jersey.

The knife was in a bucked of hot
water, makes it edgier he said.

Swallows all vacated their nests
calves quiet as new born lambs.

T’was time for the last act, Pig
was twisting on the swivel.

Next ting I knew was the hot
blood spraying like a burst pipe.

Pig was still alive and kicking up
a fuss when his belly was opened.

Guts livers and lites spilled out.
Pig Calmed Down.