To An Old Sow

Whoa there, you crazy sow, where do you think you’re going?
Charging through the garden like the devil’s on your tail,
Did I forget to lock the gate or did you force the latches?
Someday I’ll skin you for your hide and hang it on a nail.

Hey quit dodging back there, sniffing the air for mischief,
Turn around, behave yourself, get back into your pen.
Don’t stop to smell the daffodils or cultivate the roses,
You’ve rooted up the pansy bed to prove you’re loose again.

Let me catch my breath now before you test me further,
Easy . . . easy . . . that’s a girl, walk right through that gate.
Let me offer you a hand so we won’t take all morning,
As if I’d nothing else to do but pass the time and wait.

At times I see in you, old sow, ways like mine too clearly,
You won’t jump to attention when someone blows his horn
As if he ran the township—don’t chomp your jaws at me!
The Lord had trouble with nature the day you were born.

Look . . . it’s almost twelve o’clock, quit your crazy fooling,
Move . . . or take what’s coming, I’m ready to throw the switch,
Come on, you’ve raised hell, let’s have peace and order,
Come on, this is my last word, you big black slippery bitch.