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Date Written: September 5, 2017

The common folk gather under the tall steeple, to celebrate the coming of May.  It their favourite summer day.  It is May Day in old Swine Town.  The sun is high and beating down.  A fat suckling pig is on a spit roasting.  The town drunk is bravely boasting.  He will fight any man there for a pound.  The truth is he would not last a round.  His piggy eyes are small and none too good and one of his legs is made of wood.  It a town where there are more swine than mortal men.  At the last count there was a hundred and ten.  It not endowed with great wealth or natural beauty.  But the inhabitants are industrious and know duty.  Runaway pigs often run amock through the high street and are soon caught and butchered for their skin and meat.  It is May Day in Swine Town and from many chins pork fat is dripping down.


One comment on “MAY DAY IN SWINE TOWN.”

  1. John Critchley     September 5, 2017

    The poem was inspired by a strange man who insisted on calling Swinton, in South Yorkshire, Swine Town, when I sat near me on the train to Doncaster from Sheffield. I later learnt that Swinton had once been called Swine Town. It was obvious the man did not like Swinton or the people that live there. But he did offer me one of his sweets.

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