This sow endeavors
To be air-light.
Were she a starling,
She would take flight
Her sorrow--she can't inflate.
This sow endeavors
To levitate.

The sty's like a zoo--
Pig piles never-ending
Some will be ham, sure;
Fat left for rend'ring.
She's heard the wry line:
"That'll be when pigs fly." Swine
Must stay down here,
To atmosphere, can't blast.

This sow endeavors
To make a flight;
She's not a starling,
But she's quite bright.
Tomorrow will be too late:
This sow'll be severed
And then be ate.

So she will fill up,
Once she got the notion,
A bladder left from
Slaughter's commotion.
So then she ties the
End off. . .grunts, "Won't fry me!"
The other end,
Held to a friend's airway.

This sow is clever;
She will take flight.
Captures the farting--
Bladder's air-light.
To mount up
Had been her fate.
This sow's intrepid--
She'll levitate

This sow now never
Will fill a plate.