She liked the hogs, they weren’t tame, sleepy hogs Grunting in a black wallow, they were proud Rapid and harsh and savage as Macbeth. There was a young boar that she called Macbeth, She’d seen him fight grey-bristled, drowsy Duncan And drive him from the trough. Fagin was there, Bill Sikes was there and Beulah the black sow, And Lady Macduff whose grunt was half a whine. You could learn lots about a book from hogs. She poured the swill and cupped her hands to call. Sometimes they’d help her with it, Pop or Bent, But Pop was off with Bent this afternoon And Mom was always busy. Slim and straight She stood before the snake-rail pen that kept Macbeths on their own proper side of the fence. “Piggy,” she called. “Here, piggy, piggy, piggy!” It wasn’t the proper call, but the hogs knew That sweet clear loudness with its sleepy silver Trembling against a chanter of white ash. “Here, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy! Here, piggy, piggy!” There was a scrambling noise At the edge of the woods. “Here, piggy!”