(While walking the dogs this afternoon my mind wandered and voilà, a poem was born.)
Arthur P. Dale was hunting for whale,
out in the open sea.
Said Arthur P. Dale as he looked o’er the rail,
“Now where do you think they be?”
Then up from the bottom, the jaws of one got him.
No man was more flummoxed than he.
And he woulda fought ‘em, yes he woulda taught ‘em
a lesson or two… or three!
But Arthur was bested, it was uncontested;
Hors d'oeuvre a la abductee.
And though he protested while being ingested,
t'was nary a chance to flee.
Now Arthur P. Dale resides in a whale,
out in the open sea.
Tonight he lay pale, somewhere near the tail,
a victim of hyperbole.
