I wouldn’t want to be a fish.
One likes to think of fish as free
But most end up on plate or dish.
There’s almost none left to, uh, “fish.”
The fish ain’t free and nor are we
I think I’ll just enjoy my shish
Kebob, the reveries of richer
Times. We’ll fell the final tree.
The final bug we’ll cook or squish.
The frogs are surely doomed, ask Mish.
“Apocalyptic thinking” reveals
We need another liquorice,
Ricard, with a splash! And splish.
We want the stress to leap,
The bullish thing’s a balls-out freak.
We short our longs. Sort-of-ish.