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!