Of course, it's a very big ocean,
Which runs from Goose Green to Nantucket:
So why this collective commotion
Over what is a speck in a bucket?
Yes, it's a problem with which we will grapple:
But where is the fruit bowl without a bad apple?
At one thousand, three hundred metres,
It may kill a few thousand fish,
But none are the type you'd call eaters:
They wouldn't look good on a dish.
What is the point in your taking the hump
When a small part of sea has been turned to a sump?
It's a small drip of ink on a duvet,
A smut on a giant's left cheek,
Neither seem fuss-worthy, do they?
Neither seem even worth pique:
Why all this talk of the zones of the dead?
It's the size of a tick in an emperor's bed.
It's only an under-sea gusher,
A subject that no-one need touch on.
It's a pin in a haystack in Russia,
Not a blot on the BP escutcheon.
It's a wee little prick with some drivel to spout:
Rather like me, not worth thinking about.