Gene Moutoux's Poetry
Mr. Wolf and the Three Pigs
Whenever Mr. Wolf walked through the park,
Which happened every evening after dark,
He always smoked his cigs
And greeted the three pigs,
In whose paranoiac eyes he was a shark.
Now Mr. Wolf had never eaten meat,
encouraged by the morally elete.
Those chops that smelled so great
He never ever ate.
He didnít even eat pigsí pickeled feet.
One day, in metaphysical reflection,
Our friend discovered this mundane connection:
Since hunger is a pain,
Itís not a moral stain
To satisfy my porcine predilection.
So when he reached the three pigsí neighborhood,
And saw the three pigs playing (as pigs should),
He forwent the usual greeting--
For his mind was set on eating--
And ran to snatch a pig, as best he could.
The first pig ran into his house of straw
And closed the door and laughed a pig "hee-haw."
"You old pernicious villain,
Here thereíll be no killiní.
Excuse me while I telephone the law."
Our Mr. Wolf, a scholar of renown,
Did wonder if the pigs thought him a clown.
But heíd get indigestion
If he pondered this moot question,
So he huffed and puffed and blew the straw house down.
Straight to his brotherís brand new wooden house
This little pig ran quickly as a mouse.
An onerous intrusion,
Creating some confusion,
But after all a brotherís not a louse.
"Well, sir," thought Mr. Wolf, "this is the pits.
Iíll have to blow another house to bits.
Only silly little pigs
Make their homes of straw and twigs."
And he huffed and puffed like someone having fits.
Then as the house was falling to the ground,
The pigs ran to the strongest house around.
It belonged to their big brother,
Who said, just like a mother,
"You should have heeded my advice," and frowned.
This clever pig had built his house with bricks.
Itís stronger than the ones with straw or sticks.
"Pigs obdurate but tender,
You might as well surrender!"
Thus spoke the wolf, who had his bag of tricks.
He snickered as he looked up at the roof
And realized that it was not wolf-proof.
He quickly found a ladder,
Which made the pigs no sadder;
They saw their lupine foe about to goof.
Right to the hearth they quickly dragged a kettle,
Which wasnít light, Ďcause it was made of metal.
At once they poured in water,
Then watched the flames get hotter,
Assured thatís where the hungry wolf would settle.
The wolf was doing what his nature told him,
So it behooves us not a deuce to scold him.
It would be a peccadillo,
If you cried upon your pillow
When a wolf accepts the numbers nature rolls him.
With platitudes the pigs assuaged their fear,
Like "Pigs gets tougher when the wolf is near."
Although he didnít know it,
And certainly didnít show it,
Old Mr. Wolfís last earthly day was here.
His demise I will discreetly not describe.
It wonít surprise you that the whole pig tribe
Enjoyed a potpourri
Of songs from A to Z,
Including songs pigs sing when they imbibe.
The police, who had been summoned for protection,
Arrived too late and, after some reflection,
Though he was dead, they shot him,
And to the van they got him
And added the wolfís hide to their collection.
The spirit of the wolf passed overhead,
And in a soundless spiritís voice he said,
"It really isnít right
That pigs should be so bright.
They used their brains and I my brawn instead."
Though you may think this storyís rather odd,
Iíll bet you read it all without a nod.
If you can count to seven,
You know the wolfís in heaven.
But his splashing entry wasnít sent by God.
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