In the butcher's den, where floors bleach white,
An eerie oink against the cold, steel light,
To hang, a prelude to flavors that excite,
This little piggy's destiny, a chilling sight.

Within the shop, a shaven beast in wait,
Glistening skin, a feast on a silver plate,
The pig longs for life, it's not too late,
But hunger reigns, sealing its grim fate.

Eyes and nostrils, to the bloodstained floor,
Life's reflections in the shop's uproar,
Hanging purposeless, they'll be no more,
No more delicious, they'll both restore.

Unshaven, yet the meat remains prime,
But a soul's plea, a waste of precious time,
In the end, it's a brutal paradigm,
As the eyes and nostrils face the chime.