Tag Archives: #Fish

Two Into One

Two Into One

“It all comes back to Looe”

I’ve seen ev’ry menu

from Land’s End to Groats

to see what I could buy

for a handful of notes

From the East Coast to the West

I’ve seen all that there is –

“And what was the best?”

There was nothing I’ll miss

why did I roam

When here at home

there was plenty of fine food to taste

all my travels

all across the land

were a waste.

And,

It all comes back to Looe

no matter what I do

where e’er I go, it’s always true,

that I’ll always come back to Looe

The Haggis of the the North

is a fine looking beast

And the pudding of Yorkshire

is grand;

but why did I travel

so many miles

when my saviour was so close to hand.

And, it all comes back to Looe

No matter where you go

or what you do

wheree’er go, it’s always true,

that it all comes back to Looe

(and I choose)

“Fish, Chips & Mushy Peas”

“I’ve looked on the menu,

so many things to please;

but, I know what I want…

it’s fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

Fresh from the sea,

especially for me;

nothing beats the delicacy…

of fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

With Tartare Sauce,

A tour de force

add it to my…

fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

Salt and Vinegar,

Sprinkled all over

add them, please, to my…

fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

And wrapped up in yesterday’s newspaper?

No. Not served up like that anymore,

Now in a carton, or plain paper, my…

fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

And a wooden fork?

All part of the service

to add to the splendour

of my…

fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

Advertisements

The Place (and Plaice) I Love

The Place (and Plaice) I Love

The Place I Love by The Jam

When The Jam sang about ‘the place I love’ being ‘a million miles away’ they weren’t talking about fish.

Then again, a million miles away is not a realistic distance for a place (or a fish-type plaice) to be away from anyone, anyway.

A million miles away would get you well past The Moon (which is somewhere between 225,000 and 252,000 miles away from the Earth) and well on your way into nowhere in particular.

So, if you had to go to the Moon and back, twice, that would be about a million miles travelled. But, you still wouldn’t be a million miles away from anywhere on Earth.

Plaice (the fish) swim in the sea. They have no knowledge of interstellar travel and live their lives without having to dwell upon mathematics.

BTW The plaice I love is called ‘flatty’.

Fish, Chips, and Mushy Peas.

Fish, Chips, and Mushy Peas.

“I’ve looked on the menu,

so many things to please;

but I know what I want:

I’d like fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

.

Fresh from the sea,

especially for me;

nothing beats the delicacy

of fish,chips, and mushy peas.

.

With Tartare Sauce,

A tour de force

add it to my fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

.

Salt and Vinegar,

Sprinkled all over

add them, please, to my, fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

.

And wrapped up in yesterday’s newspaper?

No. Not served up like that anymore,

Now in a carton or plain paper, my fish,

chips, and mushy peas.

.

And a wooden fork?

All part of the service

to add to the experience

of my fish, chips, and mushy peas

fish, chips, and mushy peas.

Syd and Harry.

Syd and Harry.

“Let’s play Sardines!” said Syd.

“Don’t be a Pilchard, Syd!” said Harry. “You know the trouble we had the last time we played it.”

Syd looked glum. “I know; but, can’t we put it to a vote, Harry?” he asked.

“Sure!” said Harry. “Okay, Everybody! Hands up who wants to play ‘Sardines’!“

Not a hand went up.

“See, Syd?” Said Harry. “Nobody wants to play Sardines.”

Syd looked even glummer.

They all carried on with their game of kiss-chase.

Sometime later, Syd caught up with Harry, and with a quizzical look, he said: “Harry? Fish don’t have hands!”

Harry smiled. “True, Syd; but, I ask you this, where do fish fingers come from?”

Harry swam off to the other end of the aquarium, bubbling with laughter.

Syd huddled in his corner, slowly mulling over one of life’s big questions.

About Fish!

About Fish!

They said

that I should read

a poem about

fish.

I wish, I wish

that I had ever written

a poem about a fish;

upon my dish

or swimming in the sea,

swimming up to me

telling tall tales

of Davy Jones’ Locker

and rare white whales.

So, where do I begin?

Sardines in a tin?

Pilchards?

There is a difference between the two – if only we knew.

I think

that

when a salmon is in the pink

it should be left to do what salmon do;

swim the sea to Wollamaloo

or Timbuctu –

isn’t that what salmon do.

As you can see

I don’t know that much about fish

in the sea;

but, here’s the rub…

they

know even less

about me!

Herbert the Turbot

Herbert the Turbot

Herbert the Turbot

was very, very sad;

because he had never ever

been a character in a poem

or a story

until, one day…

“When is a Pilchard?”

“When is a Pilchard?”

“When is a Pilchard?”

When is a Pilchard not a Sardine?

When is a Herring a kipper?

When is a Cod not a present from God?

Should I ask me a fishing-boat skipper?

And what are Bloaters and Bucklings?

What is this fish that I see?

And why is it swimming off sideways,

has it some Crab in It’s fish ancestry?

Is there a place where good fishes do go?

To waggle their fins when they’re weary,

Do they head off to school?

Do they know about snow?

Do they call other fishes ‘my deary?’

When they swim in the sea,

do they think about me,

and write poems on beings with legs?

Do they sing of our ways,

as upon us they gaze?

an answer to these question begs.

“How goes the day? Swimmingly?”