Ballad of Licorice Icarus

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The Ballad of Icarus Licorice

 

There was a small piglet named Icarus

With surname and color both licorice;

He flew from his mother

To live with his brother

On Beekman Farm, Icarus Licorice.

Did he start out like his mother

(Who's redheaded, just like his brother?)

Or did he, in transit,

Determine to chance it,

And take flight inspired by the other

Icarus, winging the higher

Reaches of heaven, catch fire,

Melting his wings,

Scorching everything,

Then fall to the earth, to expire?

The moral of this could be true –

"It's dangerous to try something new;

That when you aspire

To rank that is higher,

You'll star in your own Bar-B-Q."

A lesson for life no denying.

Just stay where you are and no trying.

When you reach past your station

In one generation,

You're likely to end up French frying.

Or….

Don't push it, don't try it, beginner.

You'll never end up as a winner.

Your class is your fate,

Your status your state,

Just shut up or end up as dinner.

But there are two sides to our story;

This myth is not just allegory.

Our pig on the verge

Of a powerful urge,

Soared past bacon and sausage to Glory!

To our Icarus, flight is no biggie.,

He's safe in his silo-ma-jiggy,

Growing fat everyday,

They eat, sleep and play –

Hog Heavenly life for a piggy.

Some day he'll tell us his story,

That journey to star territory.

His ascent, burn and dive,

And how he survived

Will make for a grand oratory.

Come visit our happy pig Icarus,

Whose skin is the color of licorice.

His world is the best,

(He survived all the rest)

His fabulous sty is uBeekuitous.

So how did we name him, you query?

It was simply a task ordinary.

For flight, we said "Icarus,"

For hue, Brent said "Licorice,"

Together, the best salutary.

Flying pigs live to inspire us.

Impossible dreams will transpire us.

His style is divine,

Our Die Flederschwein,

Icarus Licorice, Esquirus.

Big Red and Icarus Licorice

Are growing both vigorous and rigorous.

So how will it end?

With laughter, my friend.

To think otherwise is ridiculous.

by Karen Cooksen

(who lives just down the road from Beekman Farm)