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Blog Title Photo

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

This Fish . . .

At riptide in a town that was tawdry and dark,
   I met an old fish with a guitar made of bark.
I pulled him aside and asked gently,
   If he really was a pirate, from the bloody Red Sea.

“I raided the merchants with letters of marque,
    I robbed them by day, and killed them by dark.
 Once all the stealing and robbing was done,
    No living could be made by the point of a gun."

 This fish wore scales, that shimmered like day.
 This fish had money, this fish had some play.



In a sack by his side this fish held his gun,
And a little gold cricket who kept time to his fun.
The cricket was chirping the old fish's rhyme . . .
"This fish keeps on singing,
 . . . This fish keeps up time."

“Lie still and be quiet, wait till she stinks,
 When you see the whites of their eyes, . .
 Blast away 'till she sinks.”


“Aim at her mainmast, hack the crew into stew,
    Let rip with a cannonball – run the officers through.
 Not a fighter on board . . take your good time,"
    Kill every last man, . . . grab every last dime."

This fish tore the Moon,
 . . . from the streets of the town.
He ripped out its belly,
 . . . He tore out its arm.

This fish yanked the planets,
 . . . from under the night.
He pulled them so hard,
 . . . the Sun didn’t fight.

At riptide in a town that was tawdry and dark,
   I met an old fish with a guitar made of bark.
I bought him a drink and asked gently,
   About life as a pirate, on the bloody Red Sea.

"I raided the merchants with letters of marque,
    I robbed them by day, and killed them by dark.”

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