The Flying Flounder

I’m tired of lying in the murk
Along the ocean floor
I wish my fins were feathered wings
So I could rise and soar

I’d fly so high, when I look down
The people turn to ants
I’d frolic with majestic clouds
And ask the sun to dance

I’d close my eyes and calmly glide
Supported by the breeze
I’d sail across the mountain tops
And laugh at rooted trees

I’d gently land to take a rest
and sip from crystal brooks
Then relish scores of tasty worms
Without the fishing hooks