And they are dancing, the board floor slamming under the jackboots and the stalkers grinning hideously over their canted pieces. Towering over them all is the pig and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die, child. He bows to the stalkers and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the pig. He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the black children and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and grinding at once. His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die, child. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the pig. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die, child.
I think somebody has already made this joke.