Fish

My seas are trawled both night and day

My species feeds the nation

Though most will only eat me

After my decapitation

I’m comfort food, sardines on toast,

A late-night treat to savour

A piscatorial delight

Of unintended flavour

I’m baked, I’m dried, I’m deep-fat fried

Some people like to cobble ‘em,

But still despite my tasty bite

I have an image problem.

If something’s not quite what it seems

You’re gonna think it’s fishy,

I make a most delicious dish,

But no-one thinks I’m dishy

I have a wife, though never wed;

I drink more than I oughter,

I’m out of place, I don’t fit in,

A fish that’s out of water.

I’m wet, I’m queer, I do not blink,

I have a smell that lingers,

The ultimate in mockery

A fish don’t have no fingers.

And as you tuck into your plate

Of starry-gazy pie,

My skyward-looking head declares

‘I didn’t want to die’

So if your meal does not appeal,

Or if you’re feeling blue,

Before you eat, consider this:

That fish have feelings too.

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