A fearsome man was the Butcher when he took the Porker’s life,
What brains it had he dundered in, then stuck in its throat the knife.
On the palpitating carcass, hot water he poured with care,
Then with a big broad scraper he ripped off the skin and hair.
The farmer’s wife got the liver and the fat for melting down;
The Farmer got drunk as usual and the Butcher half-a-crown.
The dogs got puddings to fight for, the bladder I claimed as mine;
So ended a day of pleasure for all but the luckless Swine.
There are many people who never throw in the pan,
A piece of the greatest blessing that was ever known to man.
But I have a wiser doctrine, the Pig is a beast I adore,
Belly or back, it’s all the same, I eat it and ask for more.
I like to eat ham or bacon with cabbage, beans or peas,
And I would not turn my nose up at ham knobs or pickled knees.
When next you walk in Cromac Street be observant as you go,
You’ll see good bacon hung on hooks in many a salty row,
And smoked or green, fat striped or lean, each chunk of bacon you see,
Are silent sad memorials of poor Pigs that used to be.
Imagine you see them lying in their sties so snug and warm,
Their only pleasure food and sleep, with no fear of any harm.
Then think of the heartless farmer bending down in the gloom,
To see if they’ve reached the limit on his knotted string of doom.
Then drop a tear of compassion and your thanks unstinted give,
To our humble friends the Porkers, who must die that we may live.
Hugh Alexander 1935