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A recorded reading of “Pigsty Authority”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
“Our house is a pigsty!” she shouts from the hall, Like I’m snorting in troughs or wrecking the walls. “This place is a mess,” she says, full of spite— But has she ever met pigs? They’re living their best life. I’ve never seen her on a farm in the mud, Yet suddenly she’s the Queen of the Swinehood. Meanwhile, my socks form a trail of lore, And the laundry pile’s evolving on the floor. The pigs I know (from Google, don’t judge) Roll in joy and never hold a grudge. They nap in hay, snack loud, spill slop, Yet no one tells them their room’s a pig flop. If dishes stack or crumbs go rogue, I’m not dirty—I’m living in vogue. This isn’t filth, it’s curated stress, A museum of comfort, not “unholy mess.” Sure, I could clean—maybe fold a shirt. But chaos is healing (and no one gets hurt). So unless she’s raised pigs or shoveled their stalls, I reject her critique of my cluttered walls. Call it a pigsty—I wear that with pride. It’s not mess, it’s vibe. It’s how I survive. And until bacon learns to vacuum the rug, I’ll nap in my mess… and give zero oinks or hugs.
Alternative version
Since when is my wife an expert on pigsties? I swear she’s never even seen one with her own eyes! Yet here she stands, hands on her hips, Proclaiming our house is in need of some flips. “This room’s a disaster!” she says with a glare, But I’m sure real pigs wouldn’t actually care. Have they seen my socks strewn across the floor? Would they notice dishes stacked by the door? I’ve seen photos of muddy, messy pens, Where pigs roll around with all of their friends. They’re happy, content, just living their life— So why’s it a crime to relax in my strife? If I’ve left a trail of crumbs or two, Or a pile of laundry that’s long overdue, Does that really make our home a swine-filled den? I’m starting to think she’s exaggerating again! But hey, I admit, I could tidy up more, Just a little less mess to even the score. But until she’s lived on a farm with some pigs, I say, let’s relax and not sweat the small digs. So go ahead, call it a pigsty if you must, But I say, my mess is one you can trust. For if pigs can be happy in their humble abode, Maybe I can be too—if you just lighten the load!
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