Lobster

 Lobster

 

What once was lobster,

now is shrimp

winkled out with a cocktail stick,

as if from a pot of cockles

or those jellied eels on match day -

a variety of flavours,

all of them fish.

Oh, how you wish

but all’s in vain,

reaching for the blue again,

coming at you like a steam train,

something dirty on the brain

sparks an ember

where once was flame.

Cast your nets, set your pots,

wind neckerchiefs into knots

patiently sit by tower bridge

Hopefully waiting on the ships,

there she blows,

there she slips,

all cantilever and hydraulics.

Just a little pinprick

will never do the trick

and all your afternoons, 

feeling wasted, feeling sick.