The Gallic chef surveyed the fish,
Their bodies cold and lifeless.
But how could he prepare the dish?
His friends had left him knifeless.
He rattled through each kitchen drawer
With calm consideration,
Searching for a sharp knife for
His masterful creation.
Then, just as things were looking grim.
He found a knife that suited.
He held it up in front of him,
The satisfaction muted.
He gazed upon the slender steel,
The sharp blade gleaming brightly.
He turned it once to gauge its feel,
Then grasped the handle tightly.
And at a steady, measured pace,
With neither fuss nor messing,
A smile spread o’er his placid face,
As he applied French dressing.
The blade with smooth precision sliced
Through scaly fish with ease,
Till, giving thanks to Jesus Christ,
He sank down on his knees.
The innards all lay in a pile,
The table marked and rutted.
The master chef evinced a smile,
The English cod were gutted.