|
When Father Time was forging The bowls to hold his fish He made some large, He made some small Just carried by his whims. There was a bowl of tinted glass It had a shade of green And in it then he put some fish With room enough to swim. Left on their own the fish Got on with living fishy lives They did what fish are prone to do: Divide and multiply. The bowl was small, the walls were firm The water’s level fixed. And so with time the gold-fish bowl Got crowded more and more. Our fish they tried to have some space But they did not succeed: They touched their tails They scraped their scales And knocked their heads together. So to the fish it soon was clear The only way escape this was: Swim round and round in circles.
|
