It’s time for castration,

Not what these piggies planned.

From the railway pub,

The surgeon shows, instruments in his left hand.

A hemp sack,

A razor blade and golden syrup tin.

The boy piglets, poor little buggers,

Rounded up, what a din.

He rolls his sleeves, plants his feet,

Relights his short damp fag.

Dad grabs a piggie, turns him tail up,

Head stuffed into the bag.

Under his left arm held,

Kicking and squealing, “Let Me Go!”

With his right hand and the razor blade,

SLASH!.… testicles now show.

Into his mouth he sucks them,

Then, with a good hard gristly bit.

That piggies now a eunuch,

For the rest of his short life.

The syrup tin is full now,

The surgeon’s job is done.

Poor little boy piggies,

Now no girls and no fun.

I have an associated cartoon for poem.