A florist--wit had run a rig--
Had set his fancy on a pig;
Which followed master like a dog,
And petted was, although a hog.
The master thus addressed the swine:
"My house and garden both be thine;
Feast on potatoes as you please,
And riot 'midst the beans and peas;
Turnips and carrots, pig, devour,
And broccoli and cauliflower;
But spare my tulips--my delight,
By which I fascinate my sight."
But Master Pig, next morning, roamed
Where sweet wort in the coolers foamed.
He sucked his fill; then munched some grains,
And, whilst inebriated, gains
The garden for some cooling fruits,
And delved his snout for tulip-roots.
He did, I tell you, much disaster;
So thought, at any rate, his master:
"My sole, my only, charge forgot,
You drunken and ungrateful sot!"
"Drunken, yourself!" said Piggy-wiggy;
"I ate the roots, not flowers, you priggy!"
The florist hit the pig a peg,
And piggy turned and tore his leg.
"Fool that I was," the florist said,
"To let that hog come near my bed!
Who cherishes a brutal mate,
Will mourn the folly, soon or late."