Return to the Animal Farm
Inspired by a family that lives in Muskogee, Oklahoma,
Chapter 3 Part 1
Now they were all enraged, driven into wild heathen fury of pride with their new numbers. Is it really true, swine think seven is a lucky number, too? These imagined dragons couldn't be any less. They were walking inert hades clones made of blubber and stupor upon now upright. None could fathom the inflated ego developed from massive gelatinous hulk of a husk. What is the truth where there is only one boar to this titanic swine to be a king of a god? Were there more? I, be the wise feminine eagle, will tell you what happened. Do not let this brief reprise leave you hanging, like the excrement from the swine's hindquarters to be. I'll teach you to spot the identity of the farmer-like swine imposters among us. We are to be not in shock or awe over the unsung true farmer child that led them so wrong about who they were, so long ago. She not be a sow, but a to be farmer partner of feminine design in waiting. Be your heart palpitating? Do not be alarmed, she is even now turning swords to plowshares.
She was a strange case. Napoleon Jr had lost his virility after he made his sacrificial swine pawn of a boar prince. Then a wolverine farmer kin in the wings to be the next sire of a princess farmer appeared. For Napoleon had became a eyeless cyclops down yonder, and this young future wiseman wanted to knock on a swinely drum shaped like a dreamcatcher. He was a pup of a medicine man, who said to Napoleon Jr, "No problem, brother. I'm a drummer. I can talk to your sow mate with no issues. Us drummers are good with words. We'll have to talk with the door locked. I'm like a children show you watched. Remember? It's got to be confidential. I'll be her male Lucy, call me the good devil." Napoleon was young, and thrice more hollow in the head, and a loveless sack upon the sheets gave her body a beat and then a bump. 'Twas not too long before a fake sow who was true farmer came out, as soon she could, she learned to run, and finally hide. They can't recall her, not a memory nor a name. They had a fake sow daughter who would rather die than join their pathetic heartless side. She be a real farmer empress, a popeless being in what was said to be papacy, yet a solid gold soul to be.
They had tired of the long hard quest. Their next hit was a visit with a strange woman of a man farmer named Ashley, who ran the most murderous swine ranch in the Midwest. He was a dumb Buckner poser, a family forgotten in history, long in an age ago. It wasn't long, but as the millennium passed due, the heartland's favorite pastime was long forgotten. No astronomicals or land rovers remembered truly, only swine's imagining children shows for farmers kids were the embraced realism. Napoleon Jr and his swine brigade of a squad were lost in a portrait full of twisted surrealism that led to a demise of a pit. This bacon Armageddon would not favor swine, Louise's imagined man must have mercy on his dimwitted opposition. With the heartland's enemy's new opponents being Joey pig, Illia sow, and Nanci piggie, who could be threatened? They be no frog to be a prince, for this swine sows could not be a miss. They'll pull the strings in their bloated idiotic puppets of a foe, and make a charming, riveting, yet humorous children's shows meant for the farmer tykes. Egads, how couldn't the grown farmers, be a dude or a gal, not think it was great to be their emotionless pal. We need not drink when we pull the strings of the overenthusiastic, deceived, foolish enemies that are only liberal in actions and sins. Their overextension will leave them breathless and dead. Is that you, former swine titan, twisted leviathan of bacon? Is your marionette on Joey pig, and a hand through his large hindquarters, his life support in which he depends? You are not thick inside the skull, you are too proud to read this reanimated of a tout written meaning. The wisemen taught me their tricks, and I, a forgotten strong eagle provider, mother in nature, am surprisingly in control. I'll leave skids behind you in a row, then throw you away, when we use Joey to gain eternal control. They'll never match us again, as we laugh and pretend, we aren't telling foul Joey pig to sin. He's an old foolish elder boar, a corpse puppet king, in which his enemy is in control. We are crowing over this elephant in mind and body, for the warlock had played anyone who is not a sage a tool. Is he that old atom that ignited when we are merely farmers?
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