Great White sharks are naturally gentle as lambs.
They long to be painters, dancers, poets--
But, at the bottom of the sea, there are no art supply stores.
No Barnes & Noble.
"Another fucking sunken galleon," they grumble, moods turning sour.
Their great fins are useless for holding brushes,
Oh very funny.
Some Great Whites dream of being ballerinas,
And hate their ridiculous, colossal bodies.
"My beret keeps falling off," complains one shark.
"I would cut off my ear, but I can't find it!" laments another.
Naturally temperamental and sensitive to begin with,
All of this frustration leaves the sharks at less than their best.
Driven mad at her inability to shoulder her violin,
A musically-inclined White
And eats it instead.
Swimmer, if you should blunder near,
Kicking stupidly and churning the waters below,
You will break the sharks' creative concentration,
When they come to play,
Don't dismiss the single delicate fin.
Don't misread their mood.
Don't believe the simple spreading grin.
They are artists.
They are not your friend.