The Walrus and the Oyster Or, The Silence of the Clams

The moon was shining on the sea,
A cold and eldritch glow. 
It served to light quite suitably
The frightful scene below.
The Walrus really wished that he
Had somewhere else to go.

The knives were sharp as sharp could be,
The fire was hot as hot.
The butter piled up on the beach
Was really quite a lot.
The Walrus struggled once again;
He couldn't move a jot. 
The remnants of the Carpenter
Were strewn across the sand.
The frightened Walrus wept to see
His comrade's severed hand.
"If he were in one piece again," 
He said, "that would be grand."

The eldest Oyster looked at him
But never a word he said.
He merely stroked his flensing knife
Across the Walrus' head,
As if to say that in a while
They'd both of them be dead.
"The time has come," the Oyster said
"To talk of many things.
Of knives - and forks - and pepper pots -
Of garlic cloves in strings - 
And whether Walruses taste nice
Fried up with onion rings"

"You can't eat me!" the Walrus cried,
Turning a little grey.
The eldest Oyster smiled a smile 
And slowly moved away.
"I wonder if the butter's hot?"
The Walrus heard him say.

The eldest Oyster settled down
And patted at his tummy.
"You know, my Walrus friend," he said,
"You really are quite yummy.
You should be glad that Iím their Dad.
You wouldn't like their Mummy."

"Oh Walrus dear," the Oyster said,
"I find it hard to weep.
You rounded all my children up
And slaughtered them like sheep."
And with a sigh he threw the tusks
Into the briny deep.

--Ken Walton

Copyright (c) 1999 Ken Walton

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