(I revised this radically to read at the well-attended
 Everyman last night. where I listened to our own Joy
France reading and continued to wonder why the
local radio or T.V. scouts hadn`t yet `discovered` 
`scouse` poet  Ralph Killey....they must be blind.)

(The full story)

It`s attested scientifically
That that fish I had last night for tea
(battered so deliciously)
Has 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 rejected me.)
And down the pan my pooh-pee squished
To the outfall end, and fed a fish.
Who munched away, but did not 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.
Verse libre`d around the ocean
Through tinier and tinier fish, until
Munched by a microscopic crill
(Who - almost before it knew -
Started murmuring Haiku)
Syllable-ing with it`s tail
 Till swallowed by a lonely whale,
Who, gulping the crill-poet whole,
Felt ardent passion in it`s soul.
  For, though the lexicon was dense,
The tune so overpowered his sense
-and his coital need so strong -
That he stole it for his mating song.
(not noticing, in his desire
His song rise many Hertzes higher)
And sang out, confidently sure
That no whale maiden could ignore
Such marvellous musicianship,
But to his singing frisk and skip
In libidinous jubilation,
Avid - all - for copulation.
And 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 his wonderful song, that he`d banked on 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 who compose on the loo:
Beware of the damage pooh-poetry can do.