Gojira's got style enough

All I'm doing is bobbing 
for bread crumbs, lately 
and I'm sick of facing 
down the fish business end 
of what I can't ever catch 
or quite comprehend without 
a canon salute from the bridge,
airborne! And a flock of seabirds

calling foul as I'm born 
all over the skies that you
herd. Such a scene! Both hands
to the face, not allowed! Unclean!

Some ump, huh? Lads, 
when my ship came in,
it was armadas of punks 
to the shores on gin, like
forest-gust leaves with big
cannonball planks from the 
deck and a long, skip trace 
off a wreck from a very short
sleeve, tucked up off the hip, cocked 
red skies to dawn. So you gots
to believe
That your luck's
gone wrong, and give props
and thanks when that beast
rose down to kick buildings like tires
test-driving the town
so hard, so tall, about Tokyo sighs
but 
You go,
oh, ee, oh,
which wicked witch lies
on this towering set? Why not
call in a peer? OK! No review,
no, no big surprise. No, I won't
demand, dear.

No recount for me! Put it all on
the books, straight math to the seer 
in both identical columns, you look
as the formula took. All clear.

As the fake wave rose up, came in
and down, surfing through the whole
crowd by the noise, just to color all
ports foamy white and rain
radioactive loud, too sane
with its toothsome grin
so proud, swinging scaly-ass
tail as the wrecks rode through
on a bird-brained whim. Now. 

How about you? 
Yes, fail. Fail up!
And next time 
set a network up
to plot steps 
tripping none too soft,
but next to key crisis points,
dork! 

When epicenter knocks, 
best pick up a fork, call it
opportunity. Just raise up the door! 
And invite in shocks, 'cause this city
knows how to remix encore,
putting butts in seats just another
round
more. 

Ding, ding said the dinner bell. 
What's on the menu, and who's 
got the score?