Fishy, slime-flocked, ichy-slime-flocked—
Unfresh pesca fress: vile.
In the air
There’s a reeking that’s nix bass.
Ill-wind gassing
Like that passing
From a pit where there’s piles
Of pooch sh!t that’s passed a poodle’s rear.

Pilchard smells, Pilchard smells—
It’s thickly rimed; it ain’t pretty.
Really stinks. . .nostril kinks.
Doomed if you breathe fish decay,
Euw! if it sits for six days,
Looming is ill fish bouquet,
Fugu would be rich bouquet.

Stinking seas’ blight—
Eating this might
Cause some craws to careen;
Even crawfish would be craw-dish pleasure.

Hear your gut crunch
Ere you launch lunch—
It’s nasty as it streams.
As you’re casting your upchuck,
You’ll sneer:

“Pilchard smells, Pilchards smells;
It’s ichthyic slime, icky-fishy!”
Really stinks; in it sinks:
Ooze slick hits chick’s chic chambray.