Evidence that pigs are not the good cooks they think they are - a poem for Christmas

I've updated this Christmas version of 'The Three Little Pigs' which I wrote years ago.

A family of pigs, brothers three,

were leaping around, Christmas Eve.

The wolf had been caught (or so they had thought).

From his huff and his puff, they were free.

Relieved at the end of their scare

they danced round the fire, unaware

that in that hotpot was a wolf who was not

fully cooked, but just medium rare.

As they went off to bed, closed the door,

from the pot there protruded a paw....

Though more warm than he’d like, he’d not give up the fight.

A poor sign for the porcine, for sure.

He’d wait until midnight, then soon,

he planned by the light of the moon

to exit that pot, give those piggies a shock

and be gorging on trotters by noon.

But all of a sudden, his light

sas blocked out by a terrible sight.

A HUGE man with a beard down the chimney appeared.

Wolfie peed in the gravy with fright.

 ‘Ho ho ho,’ said the man, with such cheer

that the wolf yelped (a coward, I fear)

‘I thought you got cooked at the end of the book.’

‘Not quite.’  Wolfie brushed off a tear.

The piggies awoke with a start,

terror clutching at each little heart.

They crept to the room and peered through the gloom

(and here is the heartwarming part).

Not believing their own piggy eyes

they stared at the scene in surprise.

The wolf, there with Santa, engaging in banter

and eating their home-made mince pies.

‘Oh, there you all are!’ Santa said.

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.  He’s not dead.

But now we’re all here, it’s the season of cheer

so why don’t we make friends instead?’

They shook trotters and paws, and drank wine.

Prematurely they sang Auld Lang Syne.

And the wolf, somewhat shaken, said he’d been mistaken

and would chase little lambsies next time.

There was always going to be a problem with a recipe in which the ingredient was
 six times as big as the cooking pot