Bob the Blobfish

As a blobfish he swims,

In the darkness he dives,

So grim,

As the path starts to get slim,

His life is under threat of knives.

His frown settled,

As he waited,

As if something speckled,

He gulped it in his kettle.

Loved as much as hated.

He dances with the flow,

Not knowing when to tumble,

Going into the unknown,

They are going to be known,

Into the dark hazy fumble.

Only a few left,

And they are hunted,

Left in the hands of theft.

As the blobfish corpse drift,

As we have only left a few hundred.