I know this sounds like more anti-capitalist ranting, but this time you are wrong, my dear children! The pigs are real, and they despise me for being a vagrant in their city. I’ve been playing Don’t Starve Hamlet all day and I’m feeling particularly ill-served by the local porcine authority. Stand there and watch me starve to death because I don’t have any of your ridiculous pig-gold, will you? I’m fairly sure I could have this pig tried at the Hague.
In the hamlet, pigs lurk all around me.
They’ve watched me this way since the day I came;
not one of them has ever asked my name.
They just called me “unpig” when they found me.
They sneer at me struggling to survive.
I scrape their leavings from the cobbled streets
and sell them back to every pig I meet.
Each morning they’re surprised I’m alive.
I cower before pigs with mighty blades
Fawning, I beg the well-dressed swine for gold,
huddle in their doorways out of the cold,
watch the guard-hogs barely contain their rage
that a tiny unpig should be so bold
as to demand a meal or working wage.