At the sign of the pig They roasted one and he was big As pigs go more or less They said he was smiling and yes He might have been you know As pigs go and as that one went Served like a sacrament Glad I am not a pig I guess But also not a prig About this pig whose face would grace The photos of my friends Or what the means mean to the ends The means of grace to be Pork-free potato chips for me He left his cryptic smile To linger in my mind awhile And be his monument But faced with what I could not taste That smiling countenance So roasted did not go to waste Nor to the waist of Lance So I was satisfied Though sorry for the one who died +Steven Curtis Lance Copyright MMXIV