I was camping near the timberline,

Making breakfast—bacon fryin',

When the sun came up to shine

(Or at least it was tryin').

As daylight spread, I started spyin'

A curious sign nailed to a pine,

Perched above the waterline,

On a slight incline.

It said, "Beware the swine

Bathing in brine!"

All in red, underlined.

I wandered down to the shoreline,

Where, sure enough, in salty brine,

A herd of pigs—exactly nine.

What happened next, I ain't lyin—

A pig climbed out and started flyin'.

In disbelief, I began to opine

That my eyesight must not be too fine,

Until, at last, I did resign

My sanity was, at best, borderline,

Andall I saw, I should decline.

The pig rose high in a straight line.

I craned my neck and bent my spine.

'Til it hurt so bad I felt like dyin'.

Now, I don't mean to whine,

But it took some time

To get the tears I was cryin'

To start a dryin'

Until, at last, I did recline

And got my spine to realign.

The pig descended and grabbed a vine

Hanging from a tree, like a serpentine—

It looked like twine.

Swinging down, the pig and ground did recombine.

He towered o'er me like a shrine.

I gazed into his eyes, and he in mine,

And he asked, "Please won't you be my Valentine?"

(I can tell this story, you're not buyin'.)