The pigs in the sty,

Poor creatures,

They stare at me with vacant eyes

There is no pain, no fear of death in them

And no prayer for mercy that I can hear,

Resigned to their fate they seem to be

Unaware of death, these souls are.

I know, one day, I have to die

But the thought of death troubles me,

When would I die I need to know,

Of what kind of death I do not know,

Would it be sudden, would it be smooth

Or would it be after thick, painful bouts

I can only dare a guess.