  A florist—wit had run a rig— Had set his fancy on a pig; Which followed master like a dog, And petted was, although a hog. The master thus addressed the swine: "My house and garden both be thine; Feast on potatoes as you please, And riot 'midst the beans and peas; Turnips and carrots, pig, devour, And broccoli and cauliflower; But spare my tulips—my delight, By which I fascinate my sight." But Master Pig, next morning, roamed Where sweet wort in the coolers foamed. He sucked his fill; then munched some grains, And, whilst inebriated, gains The garden for some cooling fruits, And delved his snout for tulip-roots. He did, I tell you, much disaster; So thought, at any rate, his master: "My sole, my only, charge forgot, You drunken and ungrateful sot!" "Drunken, yourself!" said Piggy-wiggy; "I ate the roots, not flowers, you priggy!" The florist hit the pig a peg, And piggy turned and tore his leg. "Fool that I was," the florist said, "To let that hog come near my bed! Who cherishes a brutal mate, Will mourn the folly, soon or late." |
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