Petunia, the pig was called,
But certainly not for the scent,
Just inhale and you’d be appalled,
For in garbage her days were spent.
She loved to roll around in swill,
A blend of rotten food and dung,
Of which she’d also eat her fill,
Enjoying the taste on her tongue.
She stank from without and within,
Forcing people to stand way back.
Even the goats, who swallowed tin,
Gave Petunia yards of slack.
The cows and chickens stayed away,
As did the household cat and dog,
The rooster begged at break of day,
“Will someone give soap to that hog?”
Her odor was so hard to take
That flies wouldn’t visit her pen,
And insects that made that mistake
Would drop dead, again and again.
Petunia had lived many years,
And she owed it all to her stink,
Which, to people’s eyes brought such tears
That from thoughts of slaughter they’d shrink.