If I had a pair of ragged claws
scuttling through surf-tossed sands,
I’d crawl up on this shellshorn beach.
I’d raise my thorny head
to see what I could see
to survey this continental conglomerate
that rises before me
like something big and fixed in time.
Whatever this is,
it is not akin to my ocean, no,
not in constant motion,
but something solid is it
something accumulated in time
into one big thing:
If I could drag me crusty self
upon that stony shore
I would find me windblown
wood grown structure there to rest
beneath its boney covering crest
and call meself at home.
But wait! What’s this?
A thorny beast arrests me quest!
This spiny splort to thwart my sport!
Who goes there?
Declare yourself if ye be man or beast!
Shucks. ‘T’was what I wanted least,
to share me beach with such a quilly guy,
to see me thorny self within his eye.
Pshaw! to put it politely,
‘though I could use another word,
one that you have prob’ly heard.