On the outskirts of Bindurri,

Down beside the stony creek,

There lives an aging farmer,

Of whom the townsfolk speak.

They say he's quite eccentric,

And although his farm's not big,

He's known all throughout the district,

As "The man with flying pigs".

Clarry was a working man,

Of good honest intentions,

And every week he'd come up with

A marvellous new invention.

Most of them were silly things,

Of very little use,

Like a swimsuit for a duck,

Or galoshes for a goose.

A solar powered rain gauge,

Painted red and white and blue,

Or a new hay elevator,

Powered by a kangaroo.

But then he thought a something,

That had a useful factor,

He'd make methane from pig dung,

To run his old Ford tractor.

The people cried "A genius",

"He's not just an old fool,

Think of the money we'll all save,

By using his new fuel."

He had a slat floor piggery,

Beneath it was a pit,

Which after a few weeks or so,

Would fill with- you guessed it.

Now if I wait a while,

And pump out this smelly mass,

Into a fermentation tank,

I should get methane gas.

He worked non stop through night and day,

The trenches he did dig,

And lay some pipes while being watched,

By Maggie, his prize pig.

The job was soon completed,

A mass of tanks and dials,

And steel pipes that curled around,

And stretched onward for miles.

And so after three weeks,

He was ready for the test,

But he wasn't trained in plumbing,

And his seals weren't the best.

The air filled with an odour,

The smell was quite a mystery,

Until he lit a cigarette,

And all the rest is history.

The blast was so enormous,

It was heard as far as town,

It even
took the roof,

A full ten minutes to come down.

The pigs could not escape in time,

As none of them were fast,

Poor Maggie copped the lot,

And was pushed skyward from the blast.

And all the township watched,

As Maggie sailed across the sky,

And hence comes the expression,

"Only when pigs fly."