I hustle down clockwork highstreets
past people slapping and haranguing
saddled boars.
They look down on me
because I refuse to ride a pig
to work.
'Bloody hipster,' I hear one hiss,
when he thinks I'm out of earshot.
He scowls and tugs at leather reins,
his hog's head deep
in a barrow of spoiled cabbages.
Pigs do not 'oink' - this is a myth.
But there are grunts and squeals aplenty
as I weave between bristled flanks,
take a right down Cribb St
then pull up at the office,
tethering my ostrich
to a silver birch by the carp pond.
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