What is a prawne that you forsake him, When from his nest you greedily take him, Sever his limbs, his head, and then bake him? He has no trunk to keep a vest in-- But one top hat and tuxedo to dress in, With only the kelp and the sea to caress him. He has no strong white beak to peck you-- Just hundreds of legs with which to inspect you, Out on the rocks where the tide has wreck'd you. Yet, when signs of hunger thicken, And the surf breaks, and the ship lies stricken, Gravely you turn from the swell, and sicken-- Sicken again for a taste of his juices, You steal away to conduct your abuses, Down below deck where the head and the sluice is. You forget his wit, and the tendrils beneath him, His bed in the glass that you keep your false teeth in, And light up the stove as your bare hands unsheath him. How you yearn for a shipmate to share in your sorrow, But two beady eyes where a husk lies hollow Are all you have left through the months to follow. So what is a prawne that you forsake him, When from his nest you greedily take him, Sever his limbs, his head, and then bake him?