Little Bads

By Jacob Hetrick

Every good piggy knew the story by rote—

how the wicked wolf had grabbed the first piggy by the throat

and with a snap and a rip, and oh, a gush of blood! extinguished the little pig’s soul

before it licked its lips and ate him whole.

The second pig was not such easy fare

for in his state, it was legal for pigs to keep arms to bear—

to polish and preen and keep them seen

and at every piggy’s hips, there was a cold metal sheen.

So, when the big bad wolf came a-knocking,

the second little piggy got his gun a-cocking,

and with a huff and a puff and a massive BOOM!

out on the front porch, the big bad wolf met his doom.

Of course, this tale is as straight and true

as a pig’s tail, coiled taut like a fleshy screw

but nevertheless, every piggy young or old swears

that they’ve had a slavering wolf between their crosshairs.

In a piggy’s mind, shadows jump and leap

and around every corner, fanged beasts creep—

and so, scared senseless by stories but boldened by alcohol,

the piggies decided to build themselves a border wall.

Brick by brick, they stacked it to the sky,

ever-pricking their ears to catch a distant wolf’s cry—

but the beasts must have been easy to scare,

for once the wall went up, no one saw hide or hair.

Then, one dark night a watchpig heard a snuffle and saw a flash of fur,

“Wolf!” he squealed, and squeezed off his Winchester—

only, his excitement at the kill soon turned to dread

for in the searchlight’s stark glow, there only lay a javelina, shot dead.