Don’t try to console me and ask me to waltz.
Just tell me I’m stupid, convince me I’m sick,
Assert that my skull is some four inches thick.
And then pretty soon when you’ve got me below
The point where my misery’d normally go,
I’ll begin to feel better; I’ll shake off my woes,
And I’ll haul off and give you a sock on the nose.
By which you will know that your duty is done.
It may have been painful—may not have been fun;
But though flat on your back, with your nose in a sling,
You’re satisfied, knowing you’ve done the right thing.
THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH
When I was a piglet, the grass was much greener,
Always looked as if it had just come from the cleaner,
And life was much gayer, in so many ways.
Ah, those were the days!
Now I’m old, and my joints are increasingly creaky;
My hearing is poor, and my memory’s leaky;
And I weep as I put down these sad little rhymes.
Ah, those were the times!
In my youth, I was always prepared for a frolic;
I never had pains, rheumatism or colic;
I never had aches: head, stomach or tooth.
Ah, the days of my youth!
GLOOM SONG
Look on me, mournfulest of pigs!
Ye birds, sit silent on your twigs;
Sing not to me of joy and glee, restrain your merry carols!
My eyes are dim, my nose is red,
Because of all the tears I’ve shed—
And I shall keep on shedding them, in pints and quarts and barrels.
I care not for these sunny hills,
This garden, bright with laughing rills;
Grim desert wastes best suit my tastes, or cellars, damp and dismal.
I like to sob, I love to weep.
I even snivel in my sleep,
And when I wake, make no mistake, my grief is still abysmal.
And so I sit upon this shore
And weep and moan and howl and roar
Because I hate to contemplate a scene so bright and cheery.
I’ll turn my back on joy and pomp
And seek me out a deep dark swamp
Where all the sights are blots and blights, and all the sounds are dreary.
And there within that quaking bog,
Enveloped in unwholesome fog.
Alone I’ll sit, enjoying it, while black bats flit and tumble;
There’ll be no sound except the plop
Of steady tears that drip and drop
From off my nose into the ooze where alligators grumble.
I’d rather be within that swamp
Than out where children play and romp;
I hear the bullfrogs calling me, the marsh fires gleam and beckon.
Oh, there I’ll go—yes, there I’ll go,
Where I can fill my soul with woe.
No more I’ll roam, for my true home is in a swamp, I reckon.
Chorus
So I weep (sniff, sniff),
So I cry and sob and moan,
In the deep (sniff, sniff)
Dark swamp I’ll be alone.
JUSTICE FOR THE PIG
Men call the dog the friend of man
And praise him for his deep devotion,
And yet the pig is capable
Of love as deep as any ocean.
“Bold as a lion,” people say,
“Strong as a horse”—pigs too have strength
And in defense of justice, they
Will go to almost any length.
Yet who has ever heard it said
That pigs are brave, that pigs are bold,
That pigs are handsome quadrupeds
With wills of iron and hearts of gold?
“Pig-headed,” “dirty as a pig”;
Each reference, in verse or prose,
To pigs contains a dirty dig.
I demand justice for the pig!
No more shall he be stigmatized
By adjectives, both small and big,
So vulgar and unauthorized.
O pigs, arise and prove your worth,
Assert your honesty and charm;
Let kindly, clean and polished pigs
Abound on every ranch and farm.
Let “pig” no longer be a word
Applied with snorts and sniffs and jeers;
Let pigs be proud of being pigs
As peers are proud of being peers.
Justice! Justice for the pig!
Let every pig in every pen
Lift up his voice, assert his rights
As one of nature’s noblemen.
A WAGGABLE TAIL
The dog can wag his tail and bark
To show what he thinks of you;
And the cat can purr when you smooth his fur,
But what can the poor pig do?
He knows no stunts, and his piggish grunts,
And his loud and murderous squeals
Don’t really express true happiness,
Or tell you how he feels.
His voice, when low, is a groan of woe,
When loud, a despairing wail.
’Twouldn’t be so bad if he only had
A decently waggable tail.
A waggable tail, with which to hail
His friends, with which to greet
In a dignified way, with a flourish gay,
Those whom he chanced to meet.
A tail to wave in a manner grave—
Graceful, stately and slow,
Would, I quite expect, command respect
That the tailless seldom know.
RESIGNATION
A lesson which we all must learn
Is this: without complaint
To be ourselves, and not to yearn
To be that which we ain’t.
If cats had wings, and cows had claws
And pigs had shaggy pelts,
You’d never know your friends, because
They’d look like someone else.
Then be content with what you’ve got
And do not weep and wail,
For the leopard cannot change his spots
Nor the pig his curly tail.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
The wheels are where the cart is;
The jam is where the tart is;
And home is where the heart is,
But mine is far away.
I miss the dogs and chickens,
And Jinx and Mrs. Wiggins—
I miss them like the dickens,
Far more than I can say.
The wave is where the foam is;
The brush is where the comb is;
My heart is where my home is,
And that is with the Beans.
I am not one who flinches
When cold misfortune pinches,
But I would not like the Winches
Even if they were clean.
THE WANDERER PIG
Through the night, through the dark, through the rain and sleet,
Plods the wanderer pig, on weary feet,
And his tears they drip like rain.
And he sighs, and he moans, and his head bends low,
And his tail has come uncurled,
For he has neither mansion nor bungalow—
Not a home in the whole wide world.
Not a home, not a friend, no uncles or aunts,
No brothers or sisters or cousins—
(Not a coat, not a vest, not a pair of pants)*
Though happier pigs, as they sing and dance,
Have relatives by dozens.
For others, the lights in the window gleam,
For others the fried eggs sputter;
(For the pig, all puffed up with s
elf-esteem,
A roll in the muddy gutter)*
For others, the coffee with lots of cream,
And the toast, with lots of butter.
* Lines suggested by Uncle Solomon, an owl. Not part of poem.
QUEEN’S SONG
Nobody ever tells me;
Nobody lets me know.
Wars are fought and groceries bought
And people come and go,
But what is the use of being a Queen
To sit in a marble hall
If nobody tells you anything, anything,
Any-thing at all?
I want to know all the gossip
That all the courtiers know,
Who had a fight and stayed out all night
And who has a brand new beau.
But you sit on a throne and you’re all alone
And if anyone comes to call
They simply won’t tell you anything, anything,
Any-thing at all.
By Other Animals
PRISONERS’ SONGS
Habitually we offend
Against our country’s laws.
It works out better in the end
Than being good, because—
No home has a superior
Or cheerier interior
Than this old jail,
The which we hail
With constant loud applause,
For—
Be it ever so crowded
There’s no-o-o place like jail!
We raise our voices and shout,
And call the judge a good scout,
For he puts us in
And he keeps us in
And we’d rather be in than out.
RATS’ SONG
Oh, we are the gay young rats
Who laugh at the barnyard prigs;
We can lick our weight in cats,
And double our weight in pigs.
We live wherever we like,
We do whatever we please;
An enemy’s threat can strike
No fear to such hearts as these.
When the pig detective squeals,
When cats lash furious tails,
Our laughter comes in peals,
And our laughter comes in gales.
So, cats and pigs and men,
If you want to avoid a fuss,
Stay safely in house and pen
And don’t interfere with us.
We’ve done as we always did,
We do as we’ve always done,
Though cats and pigs forbid,
For we take orders from none.
RATS ON FREDDY
Freddy, the sleuth,
He busted a tooth,
He’s a silly old bonehead, and that is the truth.
Freddy the pig,
He talks very big,
But all that he’s good for’s to guzzle and swig.
Freddy the fat,
He’s never learned that
It takes forty-nine pigs to equal one rat.
Freddy the snoop,
The silly old droop,
We’ll cut him in pieces and boil him for soup!
Freddy the sneak,
We’ll catch him next week,
And after we’ve caught him, oh boy, how he’ll squeak!
THOUGHTS ON TALKERS
Some people talk in a telephone
And some people talk in a hall;
Some people talk in a whisper,
And some people talk in a drawl;
And some people talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk-and-talk
And never say anything at all.
VALENTINE
I love my pipe
And my tobaccy;
I love you,
I do, by cracky!
I can’t write pretty
For I ain’t a poet,
But I love you,
And don’t I know it!
If you ditched me
I sure would pine,
So I hope you’ll be
My valentine!
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 1953 by Walter R. Brooks
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9228-2
The Overlook Press
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New York, NY 10012
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Distributed by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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