When Jiro dreams, he dreams of sushi.
His knife slices red tuna smooth as water.
Of ten tuna for sale, only one can be best.
He buys his first choice or nothing at all.

His knife slices red tuna, smooth as water,
his fingers telling him the taste.
He buys his first choice or nothing at all.
His grandfather was the god of eel.

His fingers told him the taste.
He was a sushi sensei, a legend.
Jiro never met Grandfather, god of eel.
The market is a cavern, a temple of tuna

for a sushi sensei, a legend.
The bite should be crisp, then sink into flesh
at the market, a cavern, a temple of tuna,
a swirl of cold ocean made solid.

The bite should be crisp, then sink into flesh
of ten tuna for sale. Only one can be best,
a swirl of cold ocean made solid,
Jiro says. He dreams of sushi.