Ah, (cough, cough) got me a truck to use fer haulin’ pigs.
It’s a big dirty truck and not clean like other rigs.
My pig haulin’; truck is caked with rust, pig shit and piss.
Ugly, stinkin’ flithy mess, impossible to miss.
We go down the highway, yeah, oink, oink, squeal!
It’s a job, it’s a life, yeah, it’s how I buy my meals.
The engine shakes and groans in the engine well
as my pig truck rolls on the road to little piggy’s hell.
To Disneyland or Canada go families in their mini vans
with the kids waving at the truckers with their sticky hands.
If your little kids ever waved at me it would be a fluke,
’cause my truck is nasty and makes most people puke.
I could of had a different job, driving a different truck.
A beer van, a city bus, even a taxi cab wouldn’t suck,
but like Lucifer, I am a sort of angel that fell,
instead of brimstone or lakes of fire, I have piggy smell.
Pig haulers never cry in their beer, or bitch or whine.
No, we just roll down the road with a truck load of swine.
It’s a lonely life, ya stop up the tears with a cork
’cause if it weren’t for me then you’d have to haul the pork.
It ain’t so bad, ’cause my truck is mine and mine alone
I’m the king of pig hauling, yeah, my truck is my throne.
On my own, I got no boss, or a back that’s ah achin’
the pay is good, so you can say I really bring home the bacon.
When I ride in my pig truck, I thank the Lord above.
Hauling pigs is more than a job, man, it’s an act love.
And some day when I die I hope it’s in my rig.
Don’t bury me, just grind me up and feed me to the pigs.
by Robert Silvera
Picture original source unknown.
