Julia, the Pig Farmer

Julia wakes up Sunday at daybreak, ready to go through it all again
Makes the coffee and makes the toast, then walks alone to her den
She stares at the box, sips her coffee and knows when
The pigs start to call her, and its time to wade into the pens

Down goes the coffee cup, off goes the box
On comes the vest, jumpers, woolies, jeans and socks
Pulls on her wellies, lights up a fag and pulls out the buckets
Then out into the cold, cold yard, this time tempted to say ‘I can’t be bothered’

The pigs sense her coming, trot to the railings and squeal
With the excitement and delight of the forthcoming meal
Little do they know with every swill and wash Julia feels
Bit by bit her soul is dying, she is losing the will

To carry on feeding and caring for the trotters
Her back aches, her face sags and her skin feels hotter
Than it ever has before, she blames the weather, water, the day
But this Sunday morning her coffee got cold
And Julia just faded away