A beautiful sow with four buttermilk thighs, glutinous and chaste like unkneaded dough. She trotted not. Four Adonic lads ferried her from trough to slop to den by palanquin. She laid supine all day, idleness possible by pampering. Her subjects adored her.
But the Pig-Queen's muscles had atrophied entirely, resulting in a body that was as useless a tool as pristine a temple. She wore her helplessness as disinterest and displeasure. Her four coachboys knew not where she wished to go -- to trough, slop, or den. When she mustered an oink, they rushed her to the trough then slop then den in hopes of appeasing her by process of elimination.
She ate, as pigs do. She lazed, as queens do. How massive and inept she grew. The less she did, the greater her gravity. Five, six, ten, twenty coach boys to support her circuit through trough, slop, den, trough, slop, den.
Then the crashes began. A coach boy would falter or the Pig-Queen would wallow in her pillowed limbo. The palanquin would wobble, fall, and reduce the slower central boys to meat paste. Resourceful and alacritious, coach boys shoveled this fleshy pudding to her Highness, saving the effort of a possible trip to the trough.
The hamlet of Porcinito struggled to produce sufficient young men to keep the sow afloat. The abundance of young men depleted. Soon old men and women and children hefted the beloved Pig-Queen, their feebleness serving only as baptism to jamhood. Then the poet. Then the policeman. Then the pastor. Then the scholar. All but few of Porcinito, homogenous fodder-flavored jam.
The sow lay inert on her grounded palanquin, plump but starving. The sow, unable to inch her tongue to taste her popular marinade, whined incapably. The last citizens of Porcinito abandoned the hamlet and the Pig-Queen and the trough, the slop, the den: the celebrity, the economist, the mayor, the idealist.
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