You think you got troubles? Thank your lucky stars
you weren’t born a feeder goldfish.
Not good enough to be a privileged upper class,
pedigree goldy, considered unfit for a proper pet.
Screwed from the day you were born for one
purpose – to be eaten by a bigger fish.
Imprisoned in a glass gulag, no way out, no escape,
except death by being eaten.
So the next time you take a hissy over a bad hair day,
or some goofball leaving you that you were better
off without anyway, thank your lucky stars you
weren’t born a feeder goldfish.
Bob Boyd