It’s a Spartan existence, living underground. Dirt is my life, my shelter, my sustenance. I sleep in dirt, eat it, excrete it, endure it.
My fate is as dismal as my life. Fat fingers yank me from the soil and pierce me with a hook. In the water, my anguished squirming beacons a hapless fish—an unwitting partner in death.
When the fish is before you on a plate, you won’t know the sacrifice I made to bring you this small pleasure. You won’t remember how I dared to speak, how you responded:
“Buzz-off, you creepy little worm.”
My fate is as dismal as my life. Fat fingers yank me from the soil and pierce me with a hook. In the water, my anguished squirming beacons a hapless fish—an unwitting partner in death.
When the fish is before you on a plate, you won’t know the sacrifice I made to bring you this small pleasure. You won’t remember how I dared to speak, how you responded:
“Buzz-off, you creepy little worm.”
