they say I'm not
a real poem
and speak of rot
and lots of foam
they fish for treasure
lost down deep
while I swim free
from hook and creep.

he's got the words
he's got the feel
he's got a pole
and likes to reel
and once he caught
a pretty fish
upon the line
and quite a dish

her scales of gold
and eyes so blue
with seaweed hair
a corn silk hue  
and in her mouth
the line was caught
just through the lip
he pulled it taught

and as she spoke
he seemed more troubled
a fish which speaks?
the water bubbled.

She said "I don't
appreciate,
the thing you masquerade
with bait
I much prefer
the real hand
the poem which reads
just like a man
without the lies
without a catch
the one who tries
my tail to ******!

and then he quickly
loosed the hook
and tossed that fish
back in the brook
he settled down
upon the shore
and pondered words
which meant much more....