There is nothing more depressing than fish
floating in an empty cheese puff container.
Fenced in by feces, these fish could only wish
for some sort of swanky tank with a filter,
tropical reef, treasure chest and rainbow
rocks, or at least a less cheesy bowl. Yet
any tax leads to regret, and somehow
we sort of suppose they deserve what they get.
A free fish wouldn’t adjust, so we either
can wait for the day it finally dies
flush it away, or hope one eats the other.
It may even be better, their life confined
but we sure are lucky we’re far superior.  
And that a prison’s exterior is not clear. 

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