The shark's gut is swimming
With maritime debris
From creepy-crawly lobster legs
To chicken of the sea

It is-that gut-in many ways
An ecosphere that breeds
Barnacles and tentacles
And undulating weeds

A pelican waits proudly there
A minnow in its bill
A turtle who beheads itself
Each time it sees an eel

The shark's gut is littered, though
With things it can't digest
Rocks and cans and distant sands
And treasure from a chest

Through leagues of ebon water
He scavenges by smell
Swallowing the shiny things
That do at bottom dwell

He nibbles when he's curious
But when he's out of sorts
He bites whatever's in his path
From sea to shining port
The only way to say for sure
The places that he's been
String him up, hose him down
Slice him fin to fin

The gills'll stop, the eyes'll roll
The photographs'll swish
The fisherman is measured
By measuring his fish

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