Abie The Fishman

My people fired idols, fertile crow to sell,
nickel-pure murder, they sired when thirsty.

My boys did surrender, moldings for birth,
hearing of what? What deception of order?

My wives were a-sturdy, a choice wet of lips,
coughing over to me—>the real jawboned way.

My rams cued in shifts, maintaining an eye,
made a farm hand of me, figures with milk.

My cities, my wells, wedded pink siren cells,
goading to be heard, coupling to be gold.

My legacy of hospitality, just teasing alone,
a sandy procedure and not seeking guilt.

My grandson, the wrestler, dreamt, beloved.

My God! Engendered! Dense set yay-thick.