There was a little pig,
wallowing in hedonism,
feeling contentedly invincible
and dirty from the American trough.
She asked aloud,
“Who put poisonous berries in my food?”
“Not I,” said the rabbit.
“Not I,” said the rat.
“Not I,” said the dragon.
“Not I,” said the goat.
She squealed,
“Someone must have dropped it in
because my tummy felt sore,
and the vet took a test
and said I ate poisonous berries.
Roger, I trusted you.
How could you do this?”
“It was not I; I was framed.”
“Remy, you’re familiar with poison.”
“I avoid it at all costs.”
“Puff, how about you?”
“I was frolicking in the autumn mist
and was too busy to do such thing.”
“Billy, it must have been you.”
“I confess to having tasted from your trough before,
but I never got sick. I’m sorry that you did,
but I did not do it.”
“Oh, who could ever love a pig
with a bad stomach?” she wailed
as she munched on her modified diet.
Poor little Pyg
emptied her savings to find a cure,
but she never found a culprit.