Every night through wind or hail the pig-man comes to trough.
Then every night and without fail the pig-man orders draft.

Near every sip into his ale he pours to help him quaff,
a dash of salt, so pure and pale, then he drinks the whole mess back.

Around his third or second jar the pig-man gets an itch
and peers toward the porch-side door; the view triggers a switch.

Within the pig-man’s modest brain a thought begins to poke:
His beer is near three fingers left and he’s due for a smoke.

So he rises from his humbled chair quite careful not to trip,
and waddles out onto the porch for a menthol sip.

After one or two cigs burnt, his mug returns to mind,
so he snuffs his dart and shambles in, to join the other swine.

But should he find upon return no fresh-poured pint provided,
he’ll huff and cough and snort and scoff: “the service sure’s subsided!”

And you would think, that this old boar—a sniper in the war—
Would learn to trust his own advice about who to abhor.

Alas the pig-man always comes, eyes blind to his own heed,
for the pub is the pig-man’s pen and alcohol his feed…