Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the boggled beggar sitted by the bay.
Big wide grin.
Zehahahaha
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for a seasoned swindler counting in a lane.
Big wide grin.
Pussy cat steps. Pussy cat steps.
Swipe swipe swipe. Swipe swipe swipe.
Shingalingaling!
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the thief who cleaned the beggar by the bay.
Big wide grin!
Zehahahaha!
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for the thief who swiped the swindler in the lane!
Big wide grin.
Stomp stomp stomp! Stomp stomp stomp!
Bang Bang Bang! Bang Bang Bang!
Shingalingaling.
Bullets sing a song.
Unlucky day for the thief – lifeless wealthless laid to waste
… …
Zehahahaha!
Bigger wider grin.
A lucky day the mugging thug who gave the thief decay
… …
Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.
Showing posts with label Yeo Zhe Benedict. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Yeo Zhe Benedict. Show all posts
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Se Peh Peh (Lecherous Ah Pek)
Nabe, stop looking at me. Sianz… this fucking old man ah… talk and talk and cannot stop. Just sip your fucking kopi and stop staring at my BOOBS. Never see breasts before issit!!? Cheebye. Every time I see him he talks to me.. “Socio-cultural factors, Sir.” “Very good Sheena”. Ka na sai… these lecturers.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Rose (Some say love)
Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
and you its only seed.
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul afraid of dyin'
that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been to long,
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,
just remember in the winter
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.
Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
and you its only seed.
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul afraid of dyin'
that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been to long,
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,
just remember in the winter
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Poor Ghost
The Poor Ghost
by Christina Rossetti
"Oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,
With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,
And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,
And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?"
"From the other world I come back to you,
My locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew.
You know the old, whilst I know the new:
But tomorrow you shall know this too."
"Oh not tomorrow into the dark, I pray;
Oh not tomorrow, too soon to go away:
Here I feel warm and well-content and gay:
Give me another year, another day."
"Am I so changed in a day and a night
That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright,
Is fain to turn away to left or right
And cover up his eyes from the sight?"
"Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend,
I loved you for life, but life has an end;
Thro' sickness I was ready to tend:
But death mars all, which we cannot mend.
"Indeed I loved you; I love you yet
If you will stay where your bed is set,
Where I have planted a violet
Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet."
"Life is gone, then love too is gone,
It was a reed that I leant upon:
Never doubt 1 will leave you alone
And not wake you rattling bone with bone.
"I go home alone to my bed,
Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head,
Roofed in with a load of lead,
Warm enough for the forgotten dead.
"But why did your tears soak thro' the clay,
And why did your sobs wake me where I lay?
I was away, far enough away:
Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."
The Road Not Taken
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Charge of the Light Brigade
The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Punk Rock Song
"Punk Rock Song" by Greg Gaffin (Bad Religion)
Have you been to the desert?
Have you walked with the dead?
There's a hundred thousand children being killed for their bread
And the figures don't lie they speak of human disease
But we do what we want and we think what we please
Have you lived the experience?
Have you witnessed the plague?
People making babies sometimes just to escape
In this land of competition the compassion is gone
Yet we ignore the needy and we keep pushing on
We keep pushing on
This is just a punk rock song
Written for the people who can see something's wrong
Like ants in a colony we do our share
But there's so many other fuckin' insects out there
And this is just a punk rock song
(like workers in a factory we do our share
but there's so many other fuckin' robots out there)
Have you visited the quagmire?
Have you swam in the shit?
The party conventions and the real politik
The faces always different, the rhetoric the same
But we swallow it, and we see nothing change
nothing has changed...
10 million dollars on a losing campaign
20 million starving and writhing in pain
Big strong people unwilling to give
Small in vision and perspective
One in five kids below the poverty line
One population runnin' out of time
--------------------------
Hi, this is a very direct song. It's not pretty poetry, but it is powerful and direct. Expletives should not always be censored, because they lend a certain sincerity to expression. That's one reason why I put in this.
Have you been to the desert?
Have you walked with the dead?
There's a hundred thousand children being killed for their bread
And the figures don't lie they speak of human disease
But we do what we want and we think what we please
Have you lived the experience?
Have you witnessed the plague?
People making babies sometimes just to escape
In this land of competition the compassion is gone
Yet we ignore the needy and we keep pushing on
We keep pushing on
This is just a punk rock song
Written for the people who can see something's wrong
Like ants in a colony we do our share
But there's so many other fuckin' insects out there
And this is just a punk rock song
(like workers in a factory we do our share
but there's so many other fuckin' robots out there)
Have you visited the quagmire?
Have you swam in the shit?
The party conventions and the real politik
The faces always different, the rhetoric the same
But we swallow it, and we see nothing change
nothing has changed...
10 million dollars on a losing campaign
20 million starving and writhing in pain
Big strong people unwilling to give
Small in vision and perspective
One in five kids below the poverty line
One population runnin' out of time
--------------------------
Hi, this is a very direct song. It's not pretty poetry, but it is powerful and direct. Expletives should not always be censored, because they lend a certain sincerity to expression. That's one reason why I put in this.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Limerick by Edward Lear
There was an Old Person whose habits,
Induced him to feed upon rabbits;
When he'd eaten eighteen,
He turned perfectly green,
Upon which he relinquished those habits.
Induced him to feed upon rabbits;
When he'd eaten eighteen,
He turned perfectly green,
Upon which he relinquished those habits.
“Merlign” (from City of Rain)
“Merlign” (from City of Rain)
Even though there are more
websites on you than verses;
even though you evoke
cameras more than pride,
postcards more than praise;
even though your titan child
is now terrorising history and
small children on Sentosa:
Still you seem to have a face poets love
to woo. There was the old gentleman,
windswept, seablown, wandering home
with a suitcase of dreams, who
treated you like a queen, hoping
to press you for secrets.
And then the lady with thick glasses,
who thought she saw Ezekiel’s cherubim,
the sign episteme of higher forces
forever barring the way to paradise.
And that young man, himself half lion,
with barbed tale raised, words coiled
like a fist. Eyes louder than silence.
Still others, perplexed
as much by your blank stare
as their maddening need to know,
burden you with the fret
of lost causes and years of waiting
Become now the need
to apostrophise what is rock,
to make it bear weight.
How we wallow in metaphors!
As a child I walked through a garden
to gawk at you, a giant too tall
for a child’s mind to wrap around.
Risking the simplest of pleasures:
a closer glance, a furtive stroke,
Reaching for scale and contact;
And now, as a man, forever measuring shadows.
No need to go on with this pretence,
these riddles and voices. This is a heap
of fashioned stone, too light to carry souls.
Rough beast, you are neither idol nor ideal.
Your heart is hollow, cold, and open
for admission, but we have nowhere else
to hide our dreams. Take what names
we have to give, and hold our secrets well.
Keep what matters and what counts;
Th e rest you can spit as spray.
Poet’s Note:
By night, The Merlion awakens during a spectacular light, sound and water show extravaganza. The ‘Rise of the Merlion’ will be staged three times a night. Colour lasers will shoot from the eyes of the Merlion and from the Musical Fountain in synchronisation with the symphony of dancing water fountains in a 15-minute show designed to be a crowd-pleaser.
– The Sentosa Homepage, circa 1888.
‘Perhaps having dealt in things, / Surfeited on them, / Their spirits yearn again for images’
– ‘Ulysses by the Merlion’, Edwin Thumboo.
‘… O feckless wanderer / remember to respect my creators.’
– ‘The Merlion to Ulysses’, Lee Tzu Pheng.
‘I still do wish it had paws.’
– ‘The Merlion’, Alfian Sa’at.
From Writing Singapore: An Historical Anthology of Singapore Literature, Angelia Poon, Philip Holden and Shirley Geok-lin Lim, eds. Singapore: NUS Press, 2009. (608-609).
Even though there are more
websites on you than verses;
even though you evoke
cameras more than pride,
postcards more than praise;
even though your titan child
is now terrorising history and
small children on Sentosa:
Still you seem to have a face poets love
to woo. There was the old gentleman,
windswept, seablown, wandering home
with a suitcase of dreams, who
treated you like a queen, hoping
to press you for secrets.
And then the lady with thick glasses,
who thought she saw Ezekiel’s cherubim,
the sign episteme of higher forces
forever barring the way to paradise.
And that young man, himself half lion,
with barbed tale raised, words coiled
like a fist. Eyes louder than silence.
Still others, perplexed
as much by your blank stare
as their maddening need to know,
burden you with the fret
of lost causes and years of waiting
Become now the need
to apostrophise what is rock,
to make it bear weight.
How we wallow in metaphors!
As a child I walked through a garden
to gawk at you, a giant too tall
for a child’s mind to wrap around.
Risking the simplest of pleasures:
a closer glance, a furtive stroke,
Reaching for scale and contact;
And now, as a man, forever measuring shadows.
No need to go on with this pretence,
these riddles and voices. This is a heap
of fashioned stone, too light to carry souls.
Rough beast, you are neither idol nor ideal.
Your heart is hollow, cold, and open
for admission, but we have nowhere else
to hide our dreams. Take what names
we have to give, and hold our secrets well.
Keep what matters and what counts;
Th e rest you can spit as spray.
Poet’s Note:
By night, The Merlion awakens during a spectacular light, sound and water show extravaganza. The ‘Rise of the Merlion’ will be staged three times a night. Colour lasers will shoot from the eyes of the Merlion and from the Musical Fountain in synchronisation with the symphony of dancing water fountains in a 15-minute show designed to be a crowd-pleaser.
– The Sentosa Homepage, circa 1888.
‘Perhaps having dealt in things, / Surfeited on them, / Their spirits yearn again for images’
– ‘Ulysses by the Merlion’, Edwin Thumboo.
‘… O feckless wanderer / remember to respect my creators.’
– ‘The Merlion to Ulysses’, Lee Tzu Pheng.
‘I still do wish it had paws.’
– ‘The Merlion’, Alfian Sa’at.
From Writing Singapore: An Historical Anthology of Singapore Literature, Angelia Poon, Philip Holden and Shirley Geok-lin Lim, eds. Singapore: NUS Press, 2009. (608-609).
Ozymandias
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled hp and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
.And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my works. Ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Credits:
Got this from Geraldine Song's class. =p
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled hp and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
.And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my works. Ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Credits:
Got this from Geraldine Song's class. =p
Civil War by Slash, Axl Rose, and Duff McKagan (Guns N' Roses)
"What we've got here is failure to
communicate.
Some men you just can't reach...
So, you get what we had here last week,
which is the way he wants it!
Well, he gets it!
N' I don't like it any more than you men." *
Look at your young men fighting
Look at your women crying
Look at your young men dying
The way they've always done before
Look at the hate we're breeding
Look at the fear we're feeding
Look at the lives we're leading
The way we've always done before
My hands are tied
The billions shift from side to side
And the wars go on with brainwashed pride
For the love of God and our human rights
And all these things are swept aside
By bloody hands time can't deny
And are washed away by your genocide
And history hides the lies of our civil wars
D'you wear a black armband
When they shot the man
Who said "Peace could last forever"
And in my first memories
They shot Kennedy
I went numb when I learned to see
So I never fell for Vietnam
We got the wall of D.C. to remind us all
That you can't trust freedom
When it's not in your hands
When everybody's fightin'
For their promised land
And
I don't need your civil war
It feeds the rich while it buries the poor
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that fresh
I don't need your civil war
Look at the shoes your filling
Look at the blood we're spilling
Look at the world we're killing
The way we've always done before
Look in the doubt we've wallowed
Look at the leaders we've followed
Look at the lies we've swallowed
And I don't want to hear no more
My hands are tied
For all I've seen has changed my mind
But still the wars go on as the years go by
With no love of God or human rights'
Cause all these dreams are swept aside
By bloody hands of the hypnotized
Who carry the cross of homicide
And history bears the scars of our civil wars
"We practice selective annihilation of mayors and government officials
For example to create a vacuum
Then we fill that vacuum
As popular war advances
Peace is closer" **
I don't need your civil war
It feeds the rich while it buries the poor
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that fresh
And I don't need your civil war
I don't need your civil war
I don't need your civil war
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that freshI don't need your civil war
I don't need one more war
I don't need one more war
Whaz so civil 'bout war anyway
communicate.
Some men you just can't reach...
So, you get what we had here last week,
which is the way he wants it!
Well, he gets it!
N' I don't like it any more than you men." *
Look at your young men fighting
Look at your women crying
Look at your young men dying
The way they've always done before
Look at the hate we're breeding
Look at the fear we're feeding
Look at the lives we're leading
The way we've always done before
My hands are tied
The billions shift from side to side
And the wars go on with brainwashed pride
For the love of God and our human rights
And all these things are swept aside
By bloody hands time can't deny
And are washed away by your genocide
And history hides the lies of our civil wars
D'you wear a black armband
When they shot the man
Who said "Peace could last forever"
And in my first memories
They shot Kennedy
I went numb when I learned to see
So I never fell for Vietnam
We got the wall of D.C. to remind us all
That you can't trust freedom
When it's not in your hands
When everybody's fightin'
For their promised land
And
I don't need your civil war
It feeds the rich while it buries the poor
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that fresh
I don't need your civil war
Look at the shoes your filling
Look at the blood we're spilling
Look at the world we're killing
The way we've always done before
Look in the doubt we've wallowed
Look at the leaders we've followed
Look at the lies we've swallowed
And I don't want to hear no more
My hands are tied
For all I've seen has changed my mind
But still the wars go on as the years go by
With no love of God or human rights'
Cause all these dreams are swept aside
By bloody hands of the hypnotized
Who carry the cross of homicide
And history bears the scars of our civil wars
"We practice selective annihilation of mayors and government officials
For example to create a vacuum
Then we fill that vacuum
As popular war advances
Peace is closer" **
I don't need your civil war
It feeds the rich while it buries the poor
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that fresh
And I don't need your civil war
I don't need your civil war
I don't need your civil war
Your power hungry sellin' soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain't that freshI don't need your civil war
I don't need one more war
I don't need one more war
Whaz so civil 'bout war anyway
O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
*Note: Graphical form matters. Check this link for a more accurate representation: http://www.bartleby.com/142/193.html
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
*Note: Graphical form matters. Check this link for a more accurate representation: http://www.bartleby.com/142/193.html
Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy by Tim Burton
He proposed in the dunes,
they were wed by the sea,
Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.
For their supper they had one specatular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride's heart made a wish.
That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.But was this little one humanWell, maybe.
Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.
She railed at the doctor:"
He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine."
"You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
... have you ever considered, by chance,a small home by the sea?"
Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
or sometimes,
"that thing that looks like a clam"
Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?
When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.
One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.
His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pouding the dashboard-
she couldn't contain
the ever-rising grief,
frustration,
and pain.
"Really, sweetheart," she said
"I don't mean to make fun,but something smells fishy
and I think it's our son.I don't like to say this, but it must be said,
you're blaming our son for your problems in bed."
He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.
The doctor diagnosed,
"I can't quite be sure,but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!"
He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
"Son, are you happy? I don't mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?
Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.
As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.
They burried him quickly in the sand by the sea-
sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.
A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy's grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.
they were wed by the sea,
Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.
For their supper they had one specatular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride's heart made a wish.
That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.But was this little one humanWell, maybe.
Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.
She railed at the doctor:"
He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine."
"You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
... have you ever considered, by chance,a small home by the sea?"
Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
or sometimes,
"that thing that looks like a clam"
Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?
When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.
One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.
His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pouding the dashboard-
she couldn't contain
the ever-rising grief,
frustration,
and pain.
"Really, sweetheart," she said
"I don't mean to make fun,but something smells fishy
and I think it's our son.I don't like to say this, but it must be said,
you're blaming our son for your problems in bed."
He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.
The doctor diagnosed,
"I can't quite be sure,but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!"
He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
"Son, are you happy? I don't mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?
Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.
As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.
They burried him quickly in the sand by the sea-
sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.
A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy's grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.
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