(A full explanation of the mystery surrounding 52 hertz)

 

It`s attested scientifically

 

That that fish I`d had last night for tea

(Battered so deliciously)

Had now become a part of me

Sat here writing poetry.

 

(Sitting – as I was wont to do –

Poohing and peeing on the loo

Penning verses earnestly

To Lily, who`d abandoned me).

And down the pipe my pooh–pee swished

To the out-fall end and fed a fish.

Who wolfed away but didn`t know it

That he was now part fish, part poet.

And when (as every fish must do)

That fish himself went to the loo

His transubstantiated motion

Vers-libre`d all around the ocean

through tinier and tinier fish, until

Snatched by a microscopic crill,

Who, almost before it knew,

Started murmuring haiku.

Beating tempo with its tail,

Till swallowed by a big fat whale.

Who gulped the little poet whole

And felt new pasion in his soul.

For though the lexicon was dense

The tune so overpowered his sense

- And his coital need so strong -

He nicked it for his mating songl.

(Not noticing – in his desire–

His voice rise many hertzes higher)

So he sang out confidently sure

That no whale-maidens could ignore

Such marvellous musicianship

But to his singing frisk and skip.

Attracted irresistibly

To his new bardic minstrelsy

In optimistic jubilation

Avid - all -for copulation,

Fill his life beyond all measure

With everlasting sex and pleasure.

 

 

But alas! and alas! and alas! and alas!

The maidens all heard him - but all just went past.

For the wonderful music he`d banked on to urge

Was never a love-song…but a bad-tempered dirge

That I`d written to Lily (who once I had cherished)

Hoping she`d shrivel and wrinkle and perish.

 

So the lesson for whales is as plain as my hand:

Avoid so-called `love` poems you don`t understand.

And - for all of you bards that compose on the loo -

 

Beware of the damage pooh-poetry can do!