I liked the lad. He always had a smile,
a whistle on his lips, and used to wait
and watch us eat. Oh, you can call it swill
but I'm not proud. For if it comes to that
I've cracked the windfall, fresher from the moss
than all your snow-cooled fare. I've savoured shoots
that daylight never blessed. But let it pass -
I liked him. He was generous with the oats.
Not like his brother there, a walking blight
on man and pig alike, his only care
is his inheritance. I saw the hate
spark in his eye. The young one's travelled far
to find cold comfort from his kin. But still
they'll come for me. I know which one I'd kill.