Dad was a blowhole,
Mom, a plankton feeder
Who never neglected the pod.

The hunters would come
In their little asinine ships,
Looking to stick our
Good sense with sharp points,
Harpooning us into believing
We'd be better off dead and used for fuel.

But Mom would read to us
Stories from books about high water,
And tip those boats right over.

Nothing dared swim in our wake on such nights,
She was queen to the waves,
Who in bows and curtsies,
Became her subjects.

Little did we know this long, arduous journey
Was driven not by kingdom, but by extinction...