Makin’ a living the old-farm way,
takin’ and givin’ mammalian lay.
He digs Chloe, Elaine, and Blythe—they’re fine.
Shaggin’ the swine.
His hog’s noshing purple flowers,
then after lunch, into the bowers
to enjoy porkplay after they dine.
Shaggin’ the swine.

He feels fine—ain’t boffing no sheep or kine,
nothing that neighs or whines;
he’s for a wood time—
shaggin’ the swine. . . .

Loving and squealin’ as he spears it;
he’s huggin’ the beast—then something queers it:
it is Fido. . .his thoughts are realigned—
shaggin’ canine. . . .

He feels fine; he’s scoffing now at the swine.
With Fido he’s real entwined, genes combined.
Shaggin’ canine. . . .