SAUL HUGGINS - POEMS

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Saul Huggins only started writing poetry recently.  Prior to that his work took him around the world.  Currently living in England. 

Botch Job


​Exposing our leaders for what they really are
Comes oh so easy for this inventive little bug.
Unable to show Itself, yet able to shine a light
Onto human nature which the Bard could not
Manage with a million skilled words: Compare
The organic method in which fools, liars, and
Charlatans are revealed in the natural glare of 
Covid 19 - to the stagy artifice of Shakespeare.
(Humans have rarely been worthy of the grand
Emotions he awarded them nor capable of the
Exquisite verse he installed on their tongues.)
 
No, this inaudible bug is not in need of a voice
To reveal human defects in their purest forms.
Moreover, it grants us knowledge by proxy in
The teaching of a new word – Furlough.  And
As well as bringing the meaning of this word
To light, the versatile bug also blasts a glaring
Beam onto those with cold heart who go on to
Abuse the ethics and practice of this new word.
Both Education AND Edification from Covid 19 -
Cruel yet gifted bug, finding ways to enlighten.
 
Upgrading the air for wildlife by
Cutting planes, cars.
Curbing the airs of the Famous by
Keeping them caged.
Purifying the air in the hoods by
Making Rap Its bitch.
                                                 Purging the streets of crime,
                                                 It is the Only Show In Town,
                                                 Owning every single person
                                                 In a planet becoming ever
                                                 Cleaner and purer with the
                                                 Presence of Its invisible self.
 
Perchance, after Its everlasting
Demise, Its greatest bequest
Can be a subtle worldwide
Release from servitude
To the hideous speed
Of life so rooted in
Love of money
As to render
Humanity(!)
           A
Botch
Job.                                                              (but don’t bank on it)     

When Pigs Fly

​Six years ago Swine flu visited our farm,
Forcing Virginia Hambone to stand firm
Against the public use of mucky troughs,
Which was causing the trots and coughs.
 
Pigs were ordered to remain in their sties
And baptize their trotters to avert demise.
Sty-to-sty sales sows solicited salty swill.
A barn was set for the expired and the ill.
 
Penlife was instinctive and fit like a glove:
Arguments preceding the making of love.
Flu had purged the tracks of all the swine
And the air sweetened from their decline.
 
Presently wild boar sauntered by, in thrall
To the intoxicating scent of nothing at all.
Unusual not to spot that superior species
Of Hog wash in their finer forms of feces.
 
Now the suaver swine was to vent spleen:
“ Quarantine is just a breeding scheme.”
They yearned to wander the fields again,
To grunt in unison and filthen the terrain.
 
The Council said it was still testing drugs,
So pigs pigging out must wear anal plugs.
“ The virus is passed on through the rear -
You will save your bacons if you adhere.”
 
They squealed as akin to human protestors
And met in sheds to abuse the Councillors -
To no avail!  Inside the butt was fit a bung:
They could now only wallow in oral dung.
 
Eventually this beastly disease flew away
And a boom of piglets scuttled out to play.
Adults oinked back into the ways of afore,
While uncivilized boar were seen no more.