Animal College: Chapter Ten
‘…Like sylvan nymphs my sows shall all be clad;
my swines, like centaurs eager for their oats,
shall with their cleft feet cut an antic rug!’
– Camburlaine had only one critique
of Mistress Friggie’s excellent charades.
She’d called his alma mater ‘Animal College’,
but could not know of course that name
was now abolished. Henceforth this sty shall
only be known as the ‘Friggingdon Club’ –
which, he believed, had been its prior title.
‘Madame,’ he finished, ‘I give you your same toast,
but in a different form. Fill beakers to the brim:
to the fructivity of the Friggingdon!’
There came the hearty snorting as before,
and every mug was emptied of each dreg.
But as the voters gazed upon the scene,
it seemed that something strange was happening.
What was it that had altered in the prig?
Eyes flitted from one figure to its match.
That had six teats, while this had only two,
but what was that which seemed to coil and grow?
The couple took up cards, returning to
their poker game, and the voters crept away.
When they had gone ten yards an outcry came.
Rushing, they looked back through the window. Yes,
a passionate debate was in progress:
there were deep groanings, bangings on the table,
lascivious glances, coy denials. The trouble
being Camburlaine and Ms Circe de la Frig
each played an ace of spades, and so now both
would have to take a wig or jacket off.
Two voices shouting lustily, and both alike –
no question what just happened in the face
of the pig. The voters looked from prig to pig,
and from pig to prig, and from prig to pig again;
but already it was impossible to say which was which.
Ariel Bric is unable to remember any of the key details from his nondescript and eventless life.