Superfish

I had a fish,

I called him Rolly,

What his real name was,

He never told me.

 

He sat on my lap,

While I sang him songs,

Then I’d throw him back in the water,

Where he belonged.

 

He was blue and grey,

With a yellow stripe,

Kind of like Batman—

The Adam West type.

 

But Rolly didn’t fight crime,

I wished that he would,

So I made him a costume,

With a cape and a hood.

 

I made him a mask,

Out of rubber quite thick,

And one for myself—

I’d be Rolly’s sidekick.

 

Well I spotted a crime,

Just two days later,

Down at the shops,

Someone stole a newspaper.

 

I rushed home to Rolly,

“There’s evil afoot!”

I grabbed his cape,

And his mask and his hood.

 

It turned out the mask,

Was a little bit tight,

I had to squeeze his head,

To make it fit right.

 

I squeezed too hard,

And popped out his eye,

I couldn’t pop it back in,

As much as I tried.

 

Orangey goo,

Oozed out from the socket,

I raced to the kitchen,

With Rolly in my pocket.

 

I knew enough,

Though I’m no paramedic,

If I was to operate,

He’d need anaesthetic.

 

I threw Rolly hard,

Right onto the floor,

He quivered then straightened,

As stiff as a board.

 

With my foot on his tail,

And a spoon on his eye,

I tried to push it back in,

But he died.

 

Now Rolly the fish,

Was slimy at best,

My CPR compressions,

Just slid off his chest.

 

We never made it,

To our crime-fighting mission,

He died on the operating table—

He must have had an unknown, pre-existing heart condition.

 

I ate him for dinner,

That’s what he would have liked—

To be battered and grilled,

And served with fried rice.

 

I’ve given up on fish,

Now I have a bulldog,

I’m knitting him a wingsuit,

We’ll be fighting crime before long.

 

© 2018 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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