Once upon a time,
there were three little pigs
(but not the ones who drowned in the sea).
The first bought a straw crucifix
for $64.98 on eBay.
“Little pig, little pig
let me in.”
The second bought a Christian CD
off Amazon and made a daisy chain
to put in his Bible.
“Not by the hair
of my chinny
chin chin.”
So the wolf huffed and he puffed
and he blew their houses down.
But the third little pig
built his house in a rock,
pulled the planks out of his eyes,
kindled a fire
set the teapot to sing,
and invited the poor to supper.
At sunset, his swineherd came to the door
bearing a basket full of manna, fig cakes,
a jar overflowing with milk,
and a table.
“Little pig, little pig,
let Me in.”
.
“Yes! By the hair
of my chinny
chin chin!”
Hooves jangled, the kettle sang,
and the dancing laughter came right in.
There were “pardon me’s”
and, “as you please,”
and tousling knees
and clustering hearts and souls and elbows
pressing and pushing and pillowing
like stems and grapes tendered by nail-scarred hands.
“What was that song again?”
the little pig asked, banging a spoon
with his leg.
“Oh, taste and see,
oh, taste and see,”
the teapot sang.
And so they did,
honey glistening like newborn creeks
on one particularly gleeful snout
and several pairs of wealthy lips.