Poem #69

If she sells seashells in south Seychelles

And he sees those same shells with a keen glean for resale

And steals them at wholesale for a sixteenth of their retail

And retreats upshore with a privately-armed detail

To shore up his export from Victoria to a female

Who had entreated by email that he depart for Seychelles

To see about those seashells

Then return to the Tennessee Dales

So she might inweave coastal scree trails

Upon her textile in greyscale

Designed not to regale but to derail

Shell’s feelers amidst the deep shale

But this actavist’s glee in Actavis meant that she fell

From a height now deemed lethal

So her project was reshelved

Until her complete works sold pell-mell

To a collector in Seychelles

Who had wedded that same shell-sell

Who eddied this whole verse tale

– has the world been well?