An untold number of toes
into the water in a daring dos.
An untold number of hands,
upon the plastic detritus lands,
on sand's turning tide a-strewn.
In God's own strewth - I swear,
pebbles throttled, bottled there,
with nets and rope garotted,
blame allotted,
throttled, mottled world,
that discarded and hurled,
this message afloat,
that will stick in your throat,
in an in-elasticated demise,
take your choice - any size,
any colour, don't bother to holler
as you drown,
down to Davey Jones' locker,
now made of plastic - and this will shock ya,
is filled with golden nano particles,
the grounds of percolation,
the anchor of our food chain,
in this the heaving ocean main,
will plasticise our insides out upon
our rotting demise, this plastic coffin,
that was not an option ever foreseen
in all our worst Armageddon dream.
With plastic eyes
go proselytise,
and of this anaplasia
ask why?
Why?
Why?
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