Local poet Art Bennett lived from 1793 until 1879. This is not one of his better efforts, but still I think it has some appeal. It’s a tribute, I suppose, to his dinner just before he eats it!
There you lie,
You poor little fry,
Your eyes wide open
Yet you cannot cry
Your back all burnt
And your belly all tore
And not a bit of butter
To grease your sore!
To a Fried Fish
