Weather Pig sways lazily,

peering from the roof.

He stares at windy Wales

with teardrops in his eyes.

Of course he faces windward

as he does throughout the year,

but now his task is tearful.

Piggy Belle is dead.

Guard Pig lies at duty

by the front door, as he must.

His task to pee on Mormons,

bite balls off burglar thugs.

He is is lax about his duties,

though always at his post.

Today he glares with sadness,

for Piggy Belle is dead.

Piggy Ornamental

has no job to do at all.

She is just bronzed off with life today

and yesterday as well.

Her empty life is emptier,

so decorously sad,

Pigginess is lesser now,

'cos Piggy Belle is dead.

All the piggy presences

in Malpoet's grand estate,

grieve the porcine paucity,

end of the Belle Epoche.

For years she hung out prettily.

She called at dinner time.

If needed on the telephone,

she let me know in time.

The constant task was arduous

as was time and weather toll.

Poor Piggy Belle has fallen now

None more shall hear her call.

How sad I was when I was told,

she'd tolled her final toll.

The porky rites at last are said.

Piggy Belle is dead.