If my fingers can't tell me anything else
At least I know that
Kind of slimy
Maybe something alive
Maybe something not
Shouldn't be a codscrabbler
Those have more legs
Kind of shiny nightmares on legs
All three hundred of them
Maybe a shingleshout?
But nobody knows what those look like
The just make one scream
And leave layered bite marks behind
A red stripe
I sense that too
Fat lot of good that does me
The timers almost run down
I'll have to give a guess
"Bob, I think it's a warbled slighthammer, a male"
I looked to Bob Jobby, the show's host, expectantly
The sad failure music clip played in response
"Oh, I'm sorry Mr Fickshnickle, it's actually a rare silver geet!"
He looked almost genuinely sad for me
"But we have several parting gifts for you
Thank you so much for being on our show!"
And that memory is all I have from my brush with fame
That, and this silver can opener