I think that I shall never see
A sight as strange as a flying pig .
A winged pig that snout is sky-wised pushed
Against the earth’ fantastic slopping roundness
A winged pig who may fly all day,
And lifts whimsicality toward higher climes;
A pig that flutters in the icy air
A flap of wings and oinking there ;
Upon whose flight our imagination ascend
Our imitations in inward horizon up-sweeps logic .
Fall guys like me write poems,
But only metaphors like flying pigs
Can rise in ink stained skies and barnstorm
the very gates of eternity with winged couplets.
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