The walking catfish has gone out of
the water of moor, has left
the even shore and took off razor-
backed through the lengthy grass.
He meets a cottonmouth and spins his whiskers
round his own mouth: The pecking birds
were more lucky, they had use for pecking
mouths -- but him, his whiskers foretold
a gallant past which he had left
behind; mother never made more than
suds anyhow.
Alas his one-half mile
was took; the walking catfish referenced back.
