Sometimes I think of myself as a pig,
And sometimes as a dog; and sometimes
The dog in me worries the pig, but the pig
Only grunts, and it may even be a grunt
Of the pleasing satisfaction; so it works.
But why? Why the pig in me even wants
To be a pig, a real one, for he is so much
Satisfied in his comfort of detachment,
And he does not envy the dog for his collar,
The blue one or white, and the dog-efficiency
In the office and his bitch goddess success
In the stock market game. All the pig in me wants
Is that the dog leaves him alone. . .
That is how it is with me as I survey myself
To understand the true nature of my assignment.