O Cod,
I feel a right prawn.
Try to kipper outside the cinema.
Obviously the wrong plaice.
Welcoming bream turns into a foul mackerel,
next minnow she’s slapping my face.
I’m amazed.
What a dolphin to do.
Have I got halibutosis? A stickle back?
Squid in my trousers? No way.
I’m just a flash haddock after her turbots.
Look at this conger eel, I say.
But she’s into big bivalves
and long-distance gurnards,
so I flounder,
What a elver time to distrust
your encrustation.
The sea trout’s out, I’m a failure.
She goes off with a sperm whale.
I light up a bloater.
PETER FINCH