‘To a Fishfinger’

Thou shape impacted of Old Ocean’s heart,
With frost imbu’d and golden crumbs bedight,
Casual thy vending and thy worth too light:
How soon thy form symmetric must depart!
In rangéd boxes at the supermart
Thou bidest with thy fellows day and night,
Nor dream’st thou’ll’t scale some culinary height–
Who fries and serve thee needs no subtile art!
And yet for thee the stalwart seaman rov’d
‘Mid tempests’ rage; and Iceland’s anger keen
Endur’d; nor glimpsed ‘mid perils dire the end
Sublime: that thou, scorned digit, should’st be so lov’d
Dearer than pizza or th’ entinnéd bean,
For soliary men both food and friend!