EIEIO
Let's face it. Though we often dine on pig,
No normal soul would nosh upon a bat
Or willingly consume a dog or cat,
A fact which makes the poor pig flip its wig
As bats and cats relax or dance a jig
As Old MacDonald smiles and doffs his hat,
For when it comes to dinner, they're like rat,
Not pork loin chops with onion sauce and fig.
The swine resent this fact. Indeed, why lie?
Like us, their blood is precious, warm and red.
While rolling in the mud, they often sob.
There is no mud, they realize, once you die.
If only Old MacDonald stayed in bed!
Why can't he find another life to rob?
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