I'm on those bar harbor shiny sides sunny side down. I'm on those smoked-up oil-packed filet-o-fuckboy stuffed in a can. I'm on those Portuguese-Chinese-Moroccan-Nor-easter Maineland motherfuckers harder than Steven King in a small town 6 paragraphs deep. I peel off a tin with my bare hands don't care where the juice splashes. Call me kipper I'll call you a snack. I WILL not be vacuum sealed, you dollar ninety-nine deenz-list wannabe walking back to the Mediterranean hands in your pocket and a herring in your purse. You think I got here boneless? Ask me where the scales are I FORGOT who came from the deep in the days long before. Slap of mustard on my ass call me Richard Deenz Anderson. Not a drop of lemon in sight it's tomato sauce sunshine summertime simmer down low grandma secret recipe in the tin ask politely she will MAKE you forget what went inside the pot.
