A Sonnet to Lionpig
We both knew that you were lying
in perfect bliss of truest love.
Love that bound us, love undying,
fitting like a velvet glove.
All you fibs are wildly porcine,
persistently you mendicate.
Reclining in a way so feline,
wishing now to procreate.
Skulking in our sty so private,
hatchway blocked against the world.
Building up a steamy climate,
ever more untruths unfurled.
Together in eternal falsehood,
Lionpig, we love as all would.