You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced, <br />Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea, <br />Gulping salt-water everlastingly, <br />Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced, <br />And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste; <br />And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,-- <br />Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry, <br />Legless, unloving, infamously chaste:-- <br /> <br />O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, <br />What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles? <br />How do ye vary your vile days and nights? <br />How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles <br />In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites, <br />And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?<br /><br />James Henry Leigh Hunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-fish/
