Lobster’s Lot in Life


How gracefully the lobster treads the ocean floor, I saw

Him delicately trimming his whiskers with his claw

He often cleans and scrubs his shell to make it look pristine

And when his labors through he has a gorgeous crimson sheen

He worries less than most fish with his armour plated back

And spike encrusted, pinching hands to counter foes attack

When asked for thoughts on matters of earth and fire and sky

He’ll scuttle by while muttering a minuscule reply


“I rarely am preoccupied ‘bout places outside the water

I’d rather scour for algae or teach the quadrille to my daughters

While carefully avoiding cages that lead to my kind’s slaughter

We lobsters all have friends and kin that journeyed off to Maine

And perhaps it’s no surprise that they were not heard from again

For there lives a four limbed creature standing tall and colored pale

Who has a zealous taste for flesh within our hands and tails

With metal crush our shells and soak our flesh in butter and cream

But not before they cook us in a pot of boiling steam

Don’t know why they use that method, ‘less they want to hear us scream

And scream we will and scream we do as is only right

I do not bemoan our fates, I just wish for a fair fight

If they’re so sure of victory why bind our hands so tight?”


lobster claw

lobster blue

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