I was at a store.
When things were a bore.
And bought a pig.
That was small, not big.
And I named him plinkin.
And he wasn't blinkin.
How odd, you ask?
Well, perhaps it's a mask.
Of skin and pink.
Who made no clink,
Or noise at all.
And he surely falls,
When pushed, of course.
And he doesn't use force,
When bored,
And he can afford,
A lot of things.
And doesn't flings,
Anything at all.
And he surely he must,
To live and love.
What IS he?
How kind of you to ask.
He is my pet pig,
Who cannot dig,
Who has everything,
And nothing,
At the same time.
And he doesnt use a mask,
What IS he I ask?
Fore he is stuffed to the bone.
And DON'T use that tone.
He isn't a bank,
And his only income,
Is the imagination of my too old mind.
What is this piggy?
And do you diggy?
Well. He is a stuffed animal.
I dedicate this chappy to my bff Beth. Her new pet inspired me.
