There is a Bunganut Tree, you see
In a Misty, English town.
As queer as it seems, its nuts
Always fall up, not down.
What's more, this splendid tree
Sheds no leaves each spring.
An every year on its birthday
It loses another ring.
Well under this tree some moons ago
A litter of pigs was dropped
The sow she counted seventeen
And then by George she stopped.
The last one looked around
And spied the Bunganut Tree
And said to himself "that's the finest thing
I have or ever will see."
His brothers and sisters were really such pigs
They went from bad to worse.
He went off to Oxford
And became learned if quite perverse
Upon his return to the borough
He went straight to the Bunganut Tree.
And they held court as the people stared
At this pig with a masters degree
But soon the townsfolk came to know
That here was a special pair
This tree with a sense of self,
And this pig with Remarkable flair.
Together they opened a local pub;
Chaps came all during the day.
To talk, to laugh and listen,
And share their troubles away.
The Bunganut was where their friends could meet,
And their differences made them dear,
Where everyone marched to his own beat,
Simply all were welcomed here.
This then is their tale as it was told
O'er the years, o'er many a swig,
Of how an uncommon young porker,
Became known as the Bunganut Pig.
