Squeak. Scatter. Soar.

Fat little pig squeaks

of filthy dry twigs

bruising its toes, 

crimson angry nose.

Snorts and grunts — because why not?

Scorns at crows, eyes bloodshot.

Blames inheritance, pretty muse,

scribbles rage in jam-stained news.

Apparently, no one cares

how a frightened pig fares.

They stomp crumbs into mud,

echo wars with invisible thud.

Other pigs, fat and thin,

plot rebellions with grin.

So what if crows don’t care?

Pigs declare war in the air.

Crows feast on the dead,

on rotten tales spun of dread.

While pigs lunch and dine,

on faeces fermented like wine.

You must be mad, or curious,

how the end lands furious.

The moral? Ha! Let’s see,

does it matter who eats who for tea?

Fat little pig squeaks,

writes its rage in leaks.

Crows sigh, wings like wet rocks,

the universe shrugs, reality mocks.

And that’s how this ends:

no victories, no amends.

Then a cloud hiccups pink,

the moon burps a wink,

and the cat sues gravity

for cosmic depravity.