Stop all the filters, cut off the bubbler,
Prevent the dogfish from swimming with a juicy piece of plankton,
Silence the crashing waves and with muffled drum
Bring out the plastic tupperware, let the mourners come.
Let toilet bowl water circle down the head
Scribbling in the pebbles the message He Is Dead
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My Roomba. My Algae Sucker. my buddy. The best.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The Tetra-Min is not wanted now: throw out every flake;
Pack up the fishnet and dismantle the pebble rake;
Pour away the water and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
My apologies to W.H. Auden.
But alas the news is that Coral the Algae sucker has passed. That leaves me (Goldie the badass cichlid) alone in the world. Sure, I wanted it this way, but now that I have my freedom, my silence, what good can it come too.
I blame Skinny Guy. I overheard him saying something yesterday about cleaning this filthy stench hole. But no, he got lazy yesterday, and poor Coral just couldn't take it anymore. He checked out around dinner time. Now he sleeps with the fishes.
Thing#1 was devastated. Let me tell you, that girl has some lungs. Skinny Guy told her he'd come home tomorrow with a couple of new Algae Suckers tomorrow. Good thing. I can't be expected to keep this thing clean by myself, after all!