Because you know, I’m all about that bass.
Trout? No, bass! Get ready.
I’m all about that bass. Rock[fish] steady?
Nope, all about that bass. . . .

In that water clear I can spy a few,
and I can take ’em, take ’em, reel ’em in by the slew.
I don’t need no boom-boom. . .stun ’em with a blast—
once my line’s sunk, that’s how I will catch ’em.
My storage magazine is where from the line they drop:
I stick ’em in my creel,
the sound they make: kerplop.
I get some beauties—cut ’em right up for sup,
give the slit-off skin to my purr pet.
Fertilizer: heads I lop.
On ichthyologistic missions: fishin’ for a prize. . .
filament’s intromission in liquid—I feel alright,
like when I’m homed in a chick fissure, libido on the ball.
But it’s fins that I’m into;
“Five-Pound Bass” is my favorite song.
Because you know, I’m all about that bass,
’pout? No, bass! I’m ready.
I squall about that bass, sans ending. . . .

I’m bringing my booty back,
wicker wicked full of finny delish, yay!
Set for filleting. . .good omega-3 fat,
set it on the dinner mat.

Keep it away from my purr pet—keep it off the tabletop;
gotta keep that filchin’ feline from pilfering the prize—
give ’im silver skin for lickin’, maybe flick him a bite
projected from my fishy finger:
my dinner date appalled—
flicked fish affixed to wall!

It’s finned din-din I’m into—
well, definned—eating fins is wrong.

Because you know, I’m all about that bass,
’bout that bass! It’s endless,
repeated lines ’bout bass—relentless. . . .