06/02/2012

The Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time,
Before pop stars they did mime,
Lived three little pigs,
On the hunt for adequate digs.

One pig, let's call him Jim McGraw,
Built a house made out of straw.
He settled down with his pipe,
Making sure the walls he did not ignite.

The next pig, his name was Andy,
With wood, his skills they were more handy.
His home he built from lots of sticks,
Using rope and twine and other tricks.

Pig number three, a clever dick,
He built his house out of brick.
His talents clearly well above those,
Of his fellow porcine bros.

So all the pigs were settled in,
Eating pies and drinking gin.
Their fates of which they were unaware;
The wolf, nearby, they should beware.

The wolf was know as big and bad,
Known as Paul only to his dad.
His favourite food was roast ham,
But he'd settle for raw, if in a jam.

To pig one's house, he did arrive,
I don't know how, he couldn't drive.
His deep dark voice came with a bellow,
"Come meet with me, you little fellow."

The pig put out his pipe and hid,
His head covered by a dustbin lid.
"Begone you fiend!" He squealed out,
His safety here, he did not doubt.

The wolf did laugh and with a blow,
A gust of wind began to flow.
The house of straw fell to the ground,
The pig was eaten, without a sound.

The wolf burped loud, but pined for more,
And noticed the house that was next door.
Pig number two's house of wood,
Thought the wolf to himself, "oh that's good."

Pig two had seen the bad wolf feast,
His brother, swallowed by the beast.
He composed himself and closed the shutters,
"not getting in here..." he tried to mutter.

But before the pig could show defiance,
The wolf was blowing like a garden appliance.
The house of sticks destroyed throughout,
And the pig was gone, save for his snout.

Pig number three was safe and snug,
Warm under a sheepskin rug.
The wolf approached and took a breath,
The house of bricks, he planned its death.

The bricks were strong and held out,
His blowing useless, the wolf did pout.
Seeing the chimney, he formed a scheme,
A bacon joint, his ultimate dream.

The wolf began his final descent,
The pig aware of his foe's intent.
He lit a fire using a barrel of oil,
And the wolf screamed as he began to boil.

In moments the wolf was truly dead,
And the pig made a trophy of his head.
The moral of this story, six words,
SPONSORED BY THE BRICK MARKETING BOARDS.

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