Classic Poem

I chew tobacco moistly
And keep the aquarium.
My gold fish are goopy eyed
And droopy;
The lady ones wear bridal veils
And float about the drawing room
Languorously toying with their
Gorgeous Japanese fans
(That stupid folks call fins)
Closing and opening them dreamily,
Like soft-eyed Spanish senoritas;
Flirting with me,
Flashing filmy handkerchiefs of crepe
And lace before my fascinated eyes
Pruning their weeping willow tails
For my praise.

I keep a covey of speckled fish
Like quail
And when they fly up in a flock
Greedily gobbling bubbles at the
Top of their tank
I look sharply about
To make sure no sportsman
Has smuggled in a gun
To take a pot shot at my pets.

Stupid fish I'd rather eat than look at,
But my gay, gorgeous ones
Fill the eye better than the belly.
My velvet ones,
Pattern models for silks
By Paul Poiret.
My fluttery, friendly,
Moving fellows;
Futurist fancies
Cubist conceptions
And Whistlerian butterflies
With peacock tails
Straight from Paradise
That little Japs
Would fly for colorful kites
From moss green river banks
Into the swirling blue sky
As they do in Hiroshige prints
I laugh at my funny fish,
Poke my finger playfully
At the glass
Where lurk my spunky, grumpy
Spiteful ones.

Fish are human.

I've some that swarm like bees around a queen,
Or cannibals about a missionary.
Silly-headed, bobby ones
Always agitated
Fluttering about
On futile-minded businesses.
Athletic ones that go in for
Swimming.
And a lot as common and bickeringly content
As chirping sparrows.

I never like to pass the ponds
Of my goopy nightmare fish
After dining late.
I take out my key a bit nervously
And slip softly in,
Skirting round the other corridor
Where the ghoul eyed submarine fellows
Blink all night,
I sneak as softly as I may
To bed
Without disturbing the ugly looking imps
Whose orbs glint phosphorescently at me;
Never looking into evil
Bad luck fire opal eyes
Or pausing where ghost fish glide;
Restless souls that haunted hulks
Of sunken ships in former incarnations;
Their flashing eyes shooting looks at me like
Serpent's fangs of flame;
Crafty, greedy watchers
That follow my course all the way to bed
As I pass along the chilly corridor.

In the morning
With a fresh quid in my cheek
I chew tobacco moistly
And pass boldly through my aquarium,
Coaxing modest rock fish from their hiding places,
Watching my finny chameleons
Change color like sixteen year old girls.
I go to say good morning
To my flappy old soft-backed sea turtle
Who looks like a floating strip of wall paper.
I crumble crackers with friendly fingers
For my parrot fish,
And sometimes wish I could throw
A sort that resembles
Sniffling pious hypocrites in pews
To my big moray
Who sits smug in a length of sewer pipe all day,
Looks like a boa constrictor
And eats like a pig.

Oh, I have a taste for fish.
My most intimate ones
Are open-eyed innocents,
Some like buttercups,
Others like petals of Japanese quince bloom.
Sometimes I wonder
Who washes the ears of my pink tinted
Shell lustre dears.
And though I've worked here
Most all my life
I've never found out who keeps the colors
Fresh
On the hand-painted oriental ones
Imported from Malay.

In the lot I've some chic little sets for rings.
When I fall in love with a mermaid
(If I can ever find one on land)
I know a special black opal frisker
I'm going to hang round her neck for a pendant.
But I'll never get married
Till I find a girl with hair of burnished gold
As beautiful as the scales
(Which I call petals)
Of my Bermuda Brilliant.
Teeth with the sheen of a shad.
A look sparkling and iridescent
Like my rainbow fish.
But even if she never comes
I'll keep jogging along content;
Pruning my flower garden of fish,
Looking after their teeth, tails and morals
Like a mother would,
Walking meditatively, watchfully
Through the pleasant paths of my aquarium,
Chewing tobacco moistly.
And feeling very much at home.