"That's a detestable thing you did!"
said Mr. Sperm to Mr. Squid.

Said Mr. Squid to Mr. Sperm,
"It's done to save the epiderm."

Said Sperm, "Who but a squid would think
of squirting enemies with ink?
O you—you literary sort—
you've no respect for decent sport,
secreting fogs to hide beneath,
fighting with glands instead of teeth.
I'm sure it makes you pleased and proud
to make great whales address a cloud.
Think of the fellowship you've missed,
playing the coy obscurantist
wrapped up in all that murky stuff.
Come on, you've dallied long enough.
Come on out here. Now why delay?
How hunger nags at me today."

Said Squid, "Your appetite's to blame.
Must I return from where I came
because you came to where I went?
Surely there's tastier nourishment.
Go look for flounders, sharks, or smelts;
go and be hungry somewhere else...
What do you see worth eating here?"

Said Sperm, "You. Soon your cloud'll clear.
We'll wait, and when your ink is thinner,
we'll dine; you'll make a lovely dinner.
Isn't it strange, though, that I'd wish
to swallow this unsocial fish. . ."

"I'm not a fish," objected Squid.

". . .this fat mollusk," said sperm, "who's hid
his life, his whole dull life away
unsounded from the light of day,
heedless how other fishes swim,
wandering here in the cold, dim. . .
No wonder squids are so resented,
When they're so obviously demented!"

"Our blimpy hero—how it hollers,"
cried Squid, "at dedicated scholars
and entertains Its Lordship, spurning
the civilized pursuits of Learning."

Said Sperm, "I was a student once . . ."

Said Squid, "You must have been a dunce."

Said the whale gruffly, "Led my school!
But what's your Learning? Just a tool.
Use it, then chuck it—rubbish, rot
that, once it's learned, is best forgot.
I've seen good swimmers end up blind
with all your training of the mind.
That fish is capable, I've found,
who's seen the world and been around.
A whale, who travels, is at ease
in tropical or polar seas.
When he intrepidly explores
splendors of tropic island shores
or tours with icebergs at the poles,
you squids hide in your gloomy holes.
You lack ambition such as mine
because you're born without a spine."

"Perhaps," said Squid, "you will recall:
most creatures are not born at all,
but come to life by various means.
I find it strange those splendid scenes
you have observed while traveling
should fail to teach this simple thing."

"Pendant!" cried Sperm, "You know my meaning.
Words, words. You get so overweening
about my usage, inky creature,
God knows, you'd make a perfect teacher.
I say experience has shown
there's nothing like a spine of bone."

"Nor like a skull," said Squid, "that's bony.
What's in your skull, you flukey phony?
Stupidity, whose sole defense
is your fat fishy arrogance.
Lost at my depths, you'll soon declare
it's masterful to rise for air.
Snails are more capable, that creep."

"We whales," Sperm snorted, "rule the Deep."

Said Squid, "But you weren't here, you know,
scarcely a billion years ago,
the age when reptiles swam the ocean."

Said Sperm, "That's a prepost'rous notion;
yet even so, I bet you'd find
those reptiles all rigidly spined."

Said Squid, "We've left that unrecorded."

"You mean," said Sperm, "those reptiles lorded
these deeps, then died, and by your word,
squids watched it all? Why that's absurd."

"Dear me," said Squid, "not in the least.
The greatest gluttons at this feast
the soonest sicken, bloat, and crawl
with racked convulsions to the wall—
where their companions in the cup
as fossil trophies hang them up.
We are surrounded by these dead
(daily one meets some bony head)
all stuffed . . . who hang there, sad and grim,
watching the latest heroes swim.
The lowly scavenge as before.
And so I sweep the ocean floor,
ignoring the puffed insolence
of thugs grabbing preeminence,
flashing their teeth, stuffing their cheeks:
hubris it's called, among the Greeks.
O tedious dichotomies
that splash and roil these endless seas—
endless debates, all to reveal
which side shall be the other's meal.
In unplumbed caverns of the sea
I seek a lost reality:
the secret that enables one
to feed on brilliance of the sun;
the mystic counterpoise that knits
and heals discordant opposites;
the tertiary entity
that, century after century,
endures you plunderers and mocks."

Said Sperm, "I'm from my school's hard knocks.
Your secret—what's so wonderful?—
just plankton, mush, a vegetable
growing—go look!—with sun to heat it
in shallows, where the minnows eat it."

The squid resumed (he hadn't heard)
"The Ancients gave this thing a word,
called it, I think, the Tertium Quid.
And here I am, a humble squid . . .
Whales, I suspect, are seldom humble."

Sperm thrashed, and the depths heard him rumble,
"O I admire your wisdom greatly,
but I suspect you've eaten lately:
this is your after dinner mood
in which you float, digest, and brood.
Your aim is obvious, I think.
Now that you've squirted all your ink,
you squirt your talk, and hide behind
delusions of your murky mind.
There's only one reality:
all creatures who'd succeed at sea
must murder for their daily meal.
What else can all your thoughts reveal?
Sniffing the depths for sunlit cooking—
what do you feed on while you're looking?
Answer me that, O flabby one!
You'll never feed on the warm sun,
for I've come down to feed on you."

"That's an uncivil thing to do,"
cried the squid, "do reconsider . . . wait!
You say I'm flabby—evil fate!
Flabby you say? I'm old and stale."

He spoke and dodged the lumbering whale.

Sperm cried, elated, "Happy fate
that I'm a spiny vertebrate!
—because it's plain now, no one trammels
preogatives of mighty mammals.
So reconcile yourself to fate,
you like the other squids I ate,
and stop talking this talk—bores me to death.
It gets a body out of breath."

Squid chuckled. "Out? You're out of . . . Out
with you, blunderer, blubbered lout—
bossy behemoth! Brags, commands . . .
I'll crack your spine with my ten hands.
Since food's the subject we've agreed on,
you'll soon discover what I feed on,
struggling in my sucker-snare.
I wait my turn. Wheeze for your air:
appreciate my calculation,
knowing your need for inhalation;
and if my knowledge has no charms
which will escort you, pompous Ruler,
down from these heats to where it's cooler."

Sperm churned the depths with his great tail
and gasped, "You brother to the snail,
me fear your arms, old Wiggle-worms?
When god ordains you food for sperms
and you deny God's holy curse,
where's order in the universe?
You waiter!—you who only dare
defy whales who are out of air!
—and triumph now because you're balking
a hungry heart who can't stop talking.
Ha! Dodged again! O whale of trouble!
I must . . . the surface . . . blow a bubble!"

And, having missed his entree there,
Sperm rose to gulp desserts of air.