Bombay Duck

Consider the unfortunate 'Bombay Duck'...

Neither from Bombay, nor a duck;
Clearly a fish that is out of luck.

Named for the train that brought it to the city;
Ugly as sin, it deserves your pity.

But, squeeze out the Arabian Sea in which it was spawned;
Embalm in a pungent mixture, carefully ground.

Slow cook it over an embracing flame,
Warn your veggie neighbours - especially Mrs Jain!

Soon, a pungent odour will rise in the air,
redolent of oceans, trawlers n rugged men, with wind in their hair.

As the edges begin to sizzle and the skin turns to gold,
You'll feel as elated as Sanjay on his third parole.

It's crispy, it's crumbly, it's a winner without doubt;
Its flavours explode against the roof of your mouth.

They swirl and they roll like the surf on the beach,
they access parts of you even Budweiser can't reach.

The end is now nigh, you slow the pace.
You regret having started with stuffing your face.

But as the last piece disappears, you so want to cry :
You just finished your plate of Bombil Fry.......!