Pigged in

He ain’t a boar from Bora Bora,
Or a hog from Haddunmathi.
He’s Hale'iwa Javalina,
A Pukalani peccary.

(Often he’s mistaken
For a porcus Caribbean.)

The sight of his snout will ring some bells,
He looks like scrufa from Sri Lanka,
And the sus from Police in the southern Seychelles
Mistook him one time for his mama!

(One summer in sultry Samoa
Some even slurred him as swine.)

He looks, when he wears his speedo and lei,
Like a vittatus who’s on ta rasta.
But he’s a tropic Tayassuidae,
Tajacu kama'aina.

(Course, he might confuse you
For inoshishi from Ryuku.)

Haoles, he says, don’t know hole from okole;
He’ll grunt “whateva” if you don’t know how.
But there is one thing that you must never say.
Don’t call him “pig” at the luau.

(Like happened to his cousin Pua'a,
Whom the kuene served Kahlua.)

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