I once wrote a poem of a fish,
gutted on some dock,
rainbows, naturally, glinting off scales;
the odd beauty of it's d**h.
Still you,
I can barely touch with the pen.
Every attempt delivers
the most peculiar picture;
a tiny slip of a girl perched
over a churn, her ladle shaken,
and cream, free of it's skin,
spilling, pouring,
over her feet.