We cooked a pot of lobsters yesterday,
entombing them with onion, broth and corn.
The looked indignant sprinkled with Old Bay,
and cursed the day that they and we were born.
(I know they’re hatched. I need a rhyme – OK?)
Thus they died, despairing and forlorn.
The dinner guests seemed suitably upset,
as they inquired, “aren't they finished yet?"
[This message has been edited by Stephen Scaer (edited May 31, 2004).]
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