Full Fathom Fish Fry

Full Fathom Fish Fry
Cries the crier on the pier
Flipping fillets for five friars
Serving up his bitter beer

Drink your ale and eat your cod
Cries the fryer with his tongs
Handing out the fresh white meat
To the kings but not the throngs

Salutations from the grill
Cries the liar through his horn
Tossing condiments like hand grenades
To those who are not noble-born

This is not a protest poem
Cries the typist to his keys
This is just another artifact
Of art that's dying by degrees