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Boars are wonderful, boars are cool,
in every field the wild boars rule.
I love their tusks, I love their smile,
I love the way they walk in file.
If running from them, I should slip,
and they would bite me, slash and rip,
I’d know that such a glorious death
would fill with bliss my final breath.
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The Wildschwein loves the copious field
where he from hostile eyes can shield.
If dogs him track, with howl and bark,
the boar makes sure their end is stark:
When he in hiding hears them bell
he rushes out and gives them hell.
He cuts them up with shaking head,
till he in scattered guts can tread.
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O, porcine heroes! I could weep
as I, in restless, envious sleep
your lovely, bristly, horrent frames,
so sexy to all Wildschwein dames,
do covet: O, to be a swine
and have a sense of smell so fine
that I, despite my personal scent
the hunter finds whose ammo’s spent.
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