He wasn't soft and pink
witha fat little tummy;
he was hard and hollow,
a little boy mummy.

"Tell us, please, Doctor,
the reason or cause,
why our gundle of joy
is just a bundle of gauze."

"My diagnosis," he said
"for better or worse,
is that your son is the result
of an old pharoah's curse."

That night they talked
of their son's odd condition-
they called him "a reject
from an archaeological expidition."

They thought of some complex
scientific explanation,
but assumed it was simple
supernatural reincarnation.

With the other young tots
he only played twice,
an ancient game of vergin sacrifice.
(But the kids ran away, saying, "You aren't very nice.")

alone and rejected, Mummy Boy wept,
then went to the cabinet
where the snack food was kept.

He wiped his wet slockets with his mummified sleeves,
and sat down to a bowl of sugar-frosted tanna leaves.

One dark, gloomy day,
from out of the fog,
appeared a little white mummy dog.

For his newfound wrapped pet,
he did many things,
like building a dog house
à la Pryimid of kings.

It was late in day-
just before dark.
Mummy Boy took his dog
for a walk in the park.

The park was empty
except for a squirrel,
and a birthday party for a Mexican girl.

The boys and girls had all started to play,
but noticed that thing that looked like a papíer mâché.

"Look its a píñata,"
said one of the boys,
"Let's crack it wide open
and get the candy and toys."

They took a baseball bat
and whacked open his head.
Mummy Boy fell to the ground;
he finally was dead.

Inside of his head
were no candy or prizes,
jast a few stray bettles
of various sizes.

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 human
Well, 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.

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. - Mark Twain

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time - T.S. Eliot

Expecting the world to treat you fairly because you are a good person is a little like expecting a bull not to attack you because you are a vegetarian. - Dennis Wholey

Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Let us read and let us dance - two amusements that will never do any harm to the world. - Voltaire

I care not for a man's religion whose dog or cat are not the better for it. - Abraham Lincoln