Houses, old water tanks, from rust they decay,

Once a month, maybe, relined with fresh hay

Huge pink sows, with litters, eight or more,

Lounge around, outside, on a thick mud-caked floor

Rolling and scratching in dirt, urine and stool,

Preventing the parasites from drawing blood fill

Squealing pink babies fight for that soft bud,

Incessant demands from chafed nipple dugs

The old sows rise, gracefully, now off to the trough,

Their babies, run to catch up, complaining food’s off

It’s milking time, soon our turn, mum says,

It comes through that tube, there, hollow and gray

Curds and whey, Like junket, slops,

Inquisitive piglets clamber into the trough

They eat with the same frenzy as sharks on a kill,

Jostling each other to ensure their own fill

Soon back to the mud, insects in clouds

Peace and tranquillity, blankets, as the sun goes down.