The Three Little Pigs

Seeing as this blog is one big experiment, I thought I would try something different with this post and share some creative writing. This was a poem that I composed aged 13 but remains one of the few pieces that I am not completely ashamed of. It came about after an English teacher that I had a crush on (she was gorgeous, Irish and in her early 20s) set us the homework task of reinventing a fairy-tale. I guess I was trying to impress her.

Once upon a time there lived a small lad.

He listened to stories, they weren’t so bad.

He loved ‘The Three Little Pigs’ and ‘Snow White’,

but little did he know, the tales weren’t right.

His mother had lied – told him crap –

long nights he’d spent upon her lap!

What had left her mouth, filled his ears,

is similar to the rubbish everyone hears.

The truth I shall now share is just the facts.

Sit back, listen up, please relax…


In the woods there lived three little pigs,

each in a house: brick, straw, and twigs.

This tale is of a visitor from far away:

a beastly fellow; a dangerous stray.

A hungry legend – though ever so real –

loitering about in search of a meal.

To be precise, what he was after was rich pork.

He was following the smell, carrying his fork.

The quest for ham, a slice of meat,

required a plan to unlock the treat.


Wolf was up to his no good tricks,

first on the menu was the house of bricks.

Where to his despair he found the door locked,

all out the breath, he tried, and knocked.

Pig One was safe within the house,

he sat warm, alongside his spouse.

Wolf gave up, his belly empty.

“If only” he thought “I’d have had plenty!”


He continued his journey to the house of twigs

hoping to find the three succulent Pigs.

He licked his lips, followed his snout,

but when he got there all the Pigs were out!

Wolf by now grew hungry and mean

The cupboards were bare, no food to be seen.

Credit his ambition to fill his face,

he left en route to one last place.


The last house was made out of straw.

Wolf stood there, outside of the door,

and putting on a gentle tone,

called out for the Pigs: “Is anyone home?”

“Yes, just me, be with you shortly!”

“Oh yippee! At last a porky.”

But suspicious Pig Three sensed the danger –

he knew better than to trust a stranger.

“Come in. Let me get you a drink”

Pig Three made it towards the sink.

While Wolf waited patiently for his tea,

in the other room Pig Three had started to flee.


But before he left, the door was locked and out came a match:

a spark to set alight the fine straw thatch!

Flames spread quickly with thick black smoke.

Trapped inside hungry Wolf did choke.


The tale made headlines miles around:

“Wolf captured and burned to the ground”.

Pig Three’s bravery went down well –

he’d killed the Wolf with a legend to tell.


You may wonder what happened thereafter…

Honestly? Not much fun, games or laughter.

This is the bit that the boy was not told.

The cruel twist of fate – comedy gold.

Your hero, Pig Three, ended up upon my plate

and I must tell you child: he tasted great.



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