Dickory, dickory, dare,
The pig flew up in the air;
The man in brown soon brought him down,
Dickory, dickory, dare.

The Impact of Bliss on Pigs and Poets

by the distinctively
sweet smell
of ripe,
unpeeled bliss,
and the fact that fresh
bliss spoils rapidly,
pigs consume and poets
exude bliss so quickly
they’ve been known
to develop blisters,
blistering metaphors,
bliss envy
and even fleeting moments of
marital bliss
resulting in
a whole genre
of flash-pastoral verse
“pork chop poetry,”
a profound rise in porcine
and a blessed population of
nouveau riche

Day 12 of NaPoWriMo and another bliss-ed poem substituting “bliss” for a mystery word that I shall not reveal, even if faced with the guillotine.

Thank you Mother Goose for the nursery rhyme and Uncyclomedia Commons for use of the flying pig photo.

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