ON BEING A FISH
One would never choose to be a fish -
In one’s right mind.
It’s simply not the kind
Of thing that one would wish.
One’s mother would worry:
In the cold and wet all the time,
Often near the oozes and the slime:
Cold- and flu- catching in a hurry.
One can’t see clearly -
Eyes always brimming.
And all that dratted swimmimg !!
(And one can’t even breathe easily.)
There’s nets and hooks catching one;
And submarines on practice dips;
Not to mention sinking ships
Crashing down on one.
Nothing to drink except water
In which some other fish
(Or his brother, if you wish)
Has recently been a defecator.
One does one’s best in the deepest ocean,
One has no choice in what life’s about.
One takes what the Good Lord gives out,
Enjoying what’s possible of this piscine motion.
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