Ode to The Pig
Oh, Miss Piggy,
I like the way your hair
catches on your ear
when you karate chop.
I like how you always happen to walk in
on a male guffaw,
then impale it
with your four-inch stilettos.
It's satisfying to watch you
cold-cock puppets,
smooth your satin
evening dress, shimmy
your flocked shoulders,
and then preen for a moment.
You're the Mae West of muppets.
You dropped Kermit
like last season's hemline
and threw yourself at Christopher Reeve,
swooning over his muscles
and finagling duets
until the guest spot ended.
But even Superman couldn't escape
your righteous rage.
You struck his steel abs
to no effect, except
that the shock of being repelled
set you vibrating
like a stiff diving board.
When I was five they made you
into a piggy bank.
Bad taste, I thought,
especially the part where the coin
that should have dropped through a slot
at the top of your head
was slipped between
your porcine breasts.
How could they miss
your stunningly
transparent motivation,
not wealth, but adoration?
To do its work, glamor
must be impervious
and empty.
So, Miss Piggy,
bat your black lashes,
plunge that neckline,
pat your string of pearls.
Plush temptress, vamp
your breathy tautologies.
Pig, I wish you baubles and boas,
backless gowns and chiffon
babydolls, diamond tiaras
and, yes, animal prints
because fuck 'em, and besides,
who else could be so violent,
so exquisite, but you,
yes, you, yes, moi.