A clown performing at a fair
So aped a piglet’s squeal
His fears were lauded everywhere,
For men believed them real.
But he alone had made the sound;
There was no little pig around.
Next day he tried another act,
With screeches louder still,
So sharp it seemed the hall was racked
And pierced as by a drill:
Then everyone began to hiss –
No pig, all said, could sound like this.
And yet, beneath his blouse, concealed,
A bristly creature lay.
And when he pricked its skin, it squealed
In the ancient porcine way.
But often truth wins no ovation
While crowds acclaim an imitation.
