I think that I shall never feel
A poem slippery as an eel.

An eel whose oozy mouth is stuck
Against the sewers’ flowing muck;

An eel that bottom feeds all day,
On garbage that we throw away;

An eel that may in harbors snare
A mess of minnows for its lair;

Upon whose body crud has lain;
Who intimately snakes a drain.

Poems are read by fools, I feel,
But only slop can feed an eel.