This is a poem I wrote based on a news story from last year. I have set the poem in a fictionalized medieval time. It may not be appropriate for children.
I'm a noble who does as he chooses
with eclectic tastes which sometimes he fuses
So I ask you what would be the harm
in mixing slap and tickle with stock from a farm?
So long ago, before my piety
when trying to enroll in a secret society
they said "Mr noble, you can talk the talk
but the real question is can you pork the pork?"
So I pulled down my breeches and pulled out my feeler
and stuck it straight into the mouth of the squealer
the memory so fond starts to awaken
at the smell of hog roast or sausage or bacon
So every third Sunday I sneak to the sty
for a little enjoyment with my favourite guy
he makes me wheeze and grunt and roar
then I say "Hey Babe, you're no boar"