The fish.
The fish.
The fish.
He wished he were a gnome.
So strong and proud, tried and true.
Free to roam the lawns and climb on shoes.
Free to do whatever he pleased.
Oh, what he would ever give to play in the leaves!
Morning, noon, and night he dreamed
of his gnome garden,
And his gnome family.
Of his gnome home.
But, alas, he was merely a low down, dirty fish.
Doomed to murky waters or a dumb, round dish.
With no hope of those leaves.
No hope of that home.
No hope to ever be a gnome.
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