It's never too cold to steal a pig
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in broad dark night.
You can't see cold except for frosty breath
but it doesn't count.
It's zero below and I know it's wrong
but we're hungry and too proud to beg
or stand in line for food stamps.
You cross a line when you cross a fence,
break a sanctom, I guess.
All the religion I ever learned
went right down in the crap I stepped in.
They say, If you're gonna' steal, steal big.
Pick a pig you can ride.
The one with the white hide and hard head.
All the gun does is make him squeal into the dark.
The whole world hears, but not God,
not the farmer.
You can't kill a pig slitting his throat.
Too much bacon in the way.
I bulldog the hog and he drags me
around in the snow.
And by moonlight I can see the blood
and feel the electric of fear.
These cowards(of whom I'm part)
cheer me on.
It dawns on me
to stick the pig
stick the pig
stick the damn pig
with the pigsticker
in the throat, I tell myself.
Maybe I heard it in a Jim Bowie flick.
I can tell he's slowing down
his blood warms my face
salty on my lips.
grunts a death rattle
and bleeds out a blood trail.
His last breaths are from his ragged neck.
I sweat on his coarse hairy back
and he whispered in my ear,
"God has an open eye."
I was five when I stole my first pig.