It was our Wedding Anniversary,
we were walking along the seafront.
There was a little guy in his late fifties
standing next to a fishing pole,
so we sauntered on over to ask him
if he was having any luck?
He looked nervous as we approached?
In a rock pool smaller than a bath
at the side of him, were three baby sharks,
each about the length of my arm.
I tried asking him what he planned
doing with them, eat them maybe?
But he could hardly speak English
and repeated the words “Throw…back”
a couple of times whilst continuing
to get more anxious the longer we stayed.
We walked off, you concerned
(You have a heart of gold after all,
picking worms up off the Summer
pavement to stop them from drying out)
and me? well, I was more curious.
“What could he possibly need
with three baby sharks, poor things?”
you muttered, shaking your head.
“Well, there’s cowboy boots
and a damned good soup for a start off!”
I replied helpfully, it was never my
sense of humour you had married me for.
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