Classic Poem

"Dear Mother," said a little fish,
"Pray is not that a fly?
I'm very hungry, and I wish
You'd let me go and try."

"Sweet innocent," the mother cried,
And started from her nook,
"That horrid fly is put to hide
The sharpness of the hook."

Now, as I've heard, this little trout
Was young and foolish, too,
And so he thought he'd venture out,
To see if it were true.

And round about the hook he played,
With many a longing look,
And — "Dear me," to himself he said,
"I'm sure that's not a hook.

"I can but give one little pluck:
Let's see, and so I will."
So on he went, and lo! it stuck
Quite through his little gill.

And as he faint and fainter grew,
With hollow voice he cried,
"Dear mother, had I minded you,
I need not now have died."