Fish don't like being caught.
I'm sure they'd rather not
Be abducted from the water
And subjected then to slaughter.

Fish don't like baked beans
Or glossy magazines
With dozens of celebrities
Who spread throughout the web with ease.

They don't enjoy weekends
Spent on road trips with their friends.
They don't like barbeques
Or picturesque sea views.

Fish don't surf the net.
They'd surely sense a threat.
'Net' sounds worse than 'gun',
Though surfing sounds like fun.

If I had a genie's wish
I'd choose to be a fish,
Swimming freely in a shoal.
The zoo inside a bowl

Would be fine for those whose aim
Is a modicum of fame.
They'd have their fifteen minutes,
Or half an hour and then it's

A trip through death's wet moors,
Down the toilet, through the sewers.
And when it ends they'll be
Floating in the deep blue sea.

This would be their afterlife.
My sardonic laughter's knife
Would cut them up inside
If they hadn't gone and died.

I would be alive.
I'd be free to swim and dive
In their heaven, where they're dead
After being overfed.

If I should meet my death
On a hook or in a net,
I'll fail to keep life's lease
But my laughter will not cease.

As my heartless killers dine
The last laugh would be mine.
I'd taste like cheap hair gel
Because that's the way I smell.