Pigs

I ate fifteen of those weird little things,
So now you'd better tell me what they are,
Or else I'll go outside, get in my car,
And drive through your back yard, whacking the swings
And then out, through the fence. These murmurings
I feel inside are moving me. I'll go far —
Too far, most likely. Meet me at the bar
With vodka, happy talk, and some cheese strings.

Look, I'm prepared to overlook the smoke,
The way the oysters wriggled in the light,
And then that smile, after the second bite.
You must have thought it was a damn good joke:
Pigs in a blanket, sure, pigs in a poke,
Pigs mumbling folk songs. But they're still pigs, right?