Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof (ballad of a bottom-feeder‪)‬

Through the middle of a cornfield
With its ripe and golden grain,
'Round a waist-high prairie meadow
Wound a pot-hole riddled lane.
It was there a shallow puddle
Where a sign read, “Zoned – No wake,”
(Named with hopeful aspirations)
Was the pond called Mammoth Lake.

Now the puddle, at its broadest point
Was scarcely ten feet wide,
And submerged within its shallow depths
A catfish did reside.
A well-educated catfish
For he’d memorized the rules
So he’d graduate—top of his class
At Small Fry Catfish School.
 
Regulations he had studied were
ONE—“Turtles are taboo,”
Also “If it shines, don’t bite it,”
Advised precept NUMBER TWO.
And then if perchance unthinkably,
You find a hook you’ve bit,
Then rule NUMBER THREE will save your fins
Just “Flop, then twist, and spit.”