Why I Don’t Like Kippers

 

I sensed they were coming

when the stench rose up the staircase −

 

a flood of foul-smelling slime

that knew just how to net me.

 

Noxious flapping, dives and smoky fins

around they went, swamped today’s sweet breath.

 

She urged me to try this ocean sick,

swore a healthy body should be full of gills,

 

that I should swim by her side, copy her ways,

hook a life with only her in charge.

 

A wave of hate saw me jump through portholes,

my belly would retch, whilst on this sea bed.

 

A call from downstairs made me slide on scales,

washed me nearer my salty seat.

 

I sat, I moaned, found the perfect bowl of cereal,

but my spoon was always full of stinking kippers.