Shrilly the chilly air bites my pores.

That makes me feel August is near.

Soon I shall bid my nose be shut

Against the retchful smell of August fish.

Were I a gull, I would take wing

Down the ocean to find my prey,

I would neither labour nor toil

To provide me with tomorrow's meal.

Were I a cat, I would not mew

Nor follow those tiny creatures round

The home in merry-go-round

In vain attempt to meet a day's meal.

Were I a school boy with no funds,

I would be more than glad.

A load from the shore to the house

Would earn me much to buy some tart.

Were I a mother, I would not chide

My child who screams for fish.

I would but give him due comfort—

For a month more and there will be fish.

Were I a fisherman, I would but mend

And dry in sun my fishing net.

I would much comfort take in this—

A month more and there will be fish.