Within an Eastern seaboard town—
A salt-air weathered hut
With large displays of seafood
Sold from Beaker’s Fish Market.
The pelican proprietor,
With his unique physique,
Would stock the shelves with seafood
Hauling fish within his beak.
Patrons in this seaboard town,
To satiate their hunger,
Bought, salmon, shrimp, and snapper
From their pelican fishmonger.
One day while fishing off the wharf,
To stock his shelves anew,
He ran into an albatross
And caught the fowl bird flu.
And with the flu, a fever rose
Then goose bumps, wheezing, chills.
The Doc’s advice, “Get bird-nest rest.”
He prescribed some vile swill.
Recovery time, though minimal,
The bird flu left him weak,
Affecting his ability
To haul fish in his beak.
So Beaker’s Market floundered,
A fiscal loss incurred.
His shop showed a resemblance to
Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
The market’s shelves were empty.
The patrons wailed louder,
“No lobster, shrimp, or scallops,
And no clams for our chowder!”
His loss of strength, the empty shelves—
Two desperate situations.
He needed brawn to fill the shelves
With catfish and crustaceans.
On self-exam, his abs were mush.
Then he let out a wail.
Worst fears confirmed, for cellulite
Was dimpled on his tail.
With lunges, curls, and crunches—
A cardio work-out.
His glutes grew firm and sturdy,
His muscles, fit and stout.
Once more the shelves were loaded
With perch and halibut,
And business boomed just like before
At Beaker’s Fish Market.
New items added to his shelves,
Like chips and tartar sauce.
Soon came a line of airborne fowl—
Filet of albatross.
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