Lobster

 Lobster

 

What once was lobster,

now is shrimp

winkled out with a cocktail stick,

as if from a pot of cockles

that makes breath stink,

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.

Just a little pinprick

can never do the trick -

where's Pink?

Sweating in a dressing room,

leaves you in the afternoons 

feeling wasted, feeling sick,

even if you swallow,

your sensing something hollow,

unblocking the pipes,

and what you got

is not a lot.

Cast your nets, set your pots,

wind neckerchiefs into knots

patiently sit by tower bridge

in hope, waiting on the ships

to reel in Moby Dick

there she blows,

there she slips,

all cantilever and hydraulics.