I spied your shapes high in this tree
where black crows cease to sit,

The leaves are dead,
the branches break,
and bark falls off this tree

in flakes.

Inhospitable home on a dusty dirt road
how did these piggies get high?

A warning sign?
A lullaby?
A big fuck you to this passersby?

Oh, big ol' pink hides,
Oh, big ol' pink heads!

If I were that tree I'd be thrice over dead.

As dead as those piggies hung high on dead lumber,

a long lullaby for an unending slumber.