I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles
They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles.
It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe
That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge
When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will,
Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill,
I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands,
But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.”
Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown
Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down!