To fish, or not to fish, that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the
slings and arrows of outrageous fish hooks
or to take arms against a sea of fishies, and by fishing, end them...
To die, poor fish, to die - and yet 'tis to say in that death
We end the heartache and thousand natural shocks
fish flesh is heir to. 'Tis what a Mini-me appeared, so hard, to wish.
To die, to sleep... To sleep perchance to swim: Ay, there's the gills!
Fish in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when they have
Swum off this water'd earth, must give us pause. So - it's Laura
That makes uncertainty of a fish's life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Laura,
The oppressor of poisson, the poor fish's caretaker,
Who tries so hard to love, as fish decay,
The insolence of she and the healthcare,
That patients value as much as WorldCom stock,
When she herself might his quietus make
With an empty fish tank? who would house fish forced,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after (imminent) death,
The undiscover'd ocean from whose sand
No fishie returns, puzzles the gills
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than swim to others that we know not of?
Thus poor health care does make cowards of us all;
And thus the naxve fish does swim on strongly
'til 'tis sicklied o'er with the pale hue of illness,
And seizes with great pitch and movement
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of "living".-- Cry you now!
The evil Laura! Killer, in thy fish care
Be all her sins remember'd.
