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.