A Florist - Wit Had Run A Rig - Had Set His Fancy On A Pig; Which Followed Master Like A Dog, And Petted Was, Although A Hog. The Master Thus Addressed The Swine: "My House And Garden Both Be Thine; Feast On Potatoes As You Please, And Riot 'Midst The Beans And Peas; Turnips And Carrots, Pig, Devour, And Broccoli And Cauliflower; But Spare My Tulips - My Delight, By Which I Fascinate My Sight." But Master Pig, Next Morning, Roamed Where Sweet Wort In The Coolers Foamed. He Sucked His Fill; Then Munched Some Grains, And, Whilst Inebriated, Gains The Garden For Some Cooling Fruits, And Delved His Snout For Tulip-Roots. He Did, I Tell You, Much Disaster; So Thought, At Any Rate, His Master: "My Sole, My Only, Charge Forgot, You Drunken And Ungrateful Sot!" "Drunken, Yourself!" Said Piggy-Wiggy; "I Ate The Roots, Not Flowers, You Priggy!" The Florist Hit The Pig A Peg, And Piggy Turned And Tore His Leg. "Fool That I Was," The Florist Said, "To Let That Hog Come Near My Bed! Who Cherishes A Brutal Mate, Will Mourn The Folly, Soon Or Late."