by Nick Gisburne
The decks are overflowing with the catch
A slew of shattered ice on every box
The skipper of the trawler strikes a match
He lights a fat cigar and roams the docks
For this is where his money will be made:
The auction, just behind the harbour wall
His men will only rest when they are paid
The master of the ship must sell the haul
He mutters, tense, impatient at the wait
The bidders nod approval: fat and fresh
A price is soon attached to every crate
The bounty for a hundred tons of flesh
Demand is high for humans, fished from Earth
The markets always recognise their worth
