With apologies to 18th century english poet Thomas Gray and Horace Walpole's Cat |
Ode to a Dead Eel in a Trash Disposal A Little eel with eyes of blue From fumbled bag did issue through And down the drain in kitchen sink Did fly to die, then rot and stink. O’er full three days of heat duress Our Icarus does deliquesce And from the trash disposal’s womb Announce his presence to the room. From sweaty bed our Angler comes Rubbing red eyes with his thumbs And on his way to coffee brew Is halted by the sulphurous stew. Recalls him now that fateful night When all his bait on him took flight Eleven eels to bag return’d The twelfth escaped, recapture spurned. He’d thought it gone, to sewer fled And hie’d his weary self to bed, Unknowing that the eel’s absconce Was interrupted at the nonce. It’s final gasp the Eel gave up Curled round the bladed grinding cup And cruelly trapped, that noxious flow’r Ripe bloom’d anew in metal bow’r. Freshly enlightened, next he saw Above the drain’s foul, stinking maw The switch designed to grind refuse Which he flipped on to timely use! O! Little eel thy quick device Turned slick Icaric sacrifice Of freedom’s seas for which thee yearn’d In trash disposal yet thee churn’d! |