He's still got hooves in back;
there's still a market for those pickled feet.
The market decides what's poison and what's meat.
The market is why he's got no twisty tail,
no swinging sack.
But you can tell he's male;
we left that there so he can urinate.
(He's even toiled-trained!) No need to mate.
We clone them, so instead of sows, there's just
a paper trail.
Those peons eat his dust;
look at him work. We gave him human hands,
and brains enough so that he understands
how to assemble circuit boards. He works
because he must;
devoid of human quirks,
he thinks of working, and of working only.
He's never restless, angry, sad, or lonely.
We're hoping soon to breed a whole new line
then, educated swine:
economists, or even presidents.
The market will decide if that makes sense.
And when they're plump enough, they'll taste divine
with the right wine.