The Goodnight Pig
When the pig is born in the foam of beer,
it runs though the valleys of the city, chewing on laundry
In the night of the pig sleeping, the beer foam flows endlessly
In the middle of the big city, under beer, the suicide body will not end
wet until the morning
In a forest mountain, beneath the birds, the suicide body holds a painful
tooth-ache
In the box of the television, the stars streak and the black laundry bows low
In the forest, beneath a grove, the pig sees the stars in the television box, and chews on laundry under the brilliant sky
The goodnight pig
We aren’t suspicious, our footprints won’t become stones
If we get drunk on the foam of beer, the desert holds our body free, the keys won’t stop
When the pig wakes in the foam of beer, the ladybug god won’t sink into the sea
goodnight pig
riverkin 