To those of us without fish
Their food doesn't cross our mind
The thought that fish have to eat
Isn't one I have a lot of the time
In little flakes, or maybe pellets
I've never, seen, owned or smelt it
The idea still seems strange to me
It's hard to explain, can't you see?
This was a short poem I've told ye
Does it go off or does it go moldy?
That's enough, I need to lie down
All this thinkings made me frown