Donkey skins and elephant hides hang limp on wardrobe hooks; the pigs
that wore them subdivide their spoils and cook the books. All the
political world's a stage and all its pigs are players; while treading
on the boards they wage their plays like dragon slayers. But when the
final curtain's dropped until their next performance, each pig gets
swilled and then gets slopped after each pig's 'misinform' dance.
What better life is there than this, than political artifice? Pig
heroes, cheer; pig villains, hiss; When costumed, pork seems not amiss.
Donkey skins and elephant hides hang void on wardrobe hooks; after each
performance's ride, the pigs are not the schnooks. Who bought the
tickets, saw the show, and thought all was quite real? The easy mark,
the sucker and the schmo think that none of their pigs would steal. The
public cheers and claps and fawns, each one a stage door Johnny; but to
the script they are but pawns, for piggly heroes brawny.
Donkey skins and elephant hides await our Thespian pigs; tomorrow's show
-- I laughed, I cried -- with make-up, costumes, wigs. Let's cheer the
play that's quite well lit, well costumed and well played, and think the
show is real grit, and not a pig charade.
Donkey skins and elephant hides, when filled by piggy players, look not
so much like pork inside, but real dragon slayers. And yet when end their passions' plays,
stripped of costumed roles, they were pigs always.