A wee crawfish lived in the bayou
He was tinier than the others
Life was good in the slimy goo
When the net caught his brothers

His claws gripped the mangrove roots
So he wouldn't go with the fishers
Luckily there were nice thin shoots
Just the right size for his pinchers

He wanted to grow up, to swim
To do what the crawfish do
The etouffee would do without him
But maybe just a tad more roux