THE MELANCHOLY DEATH OF OYSTER BOY

[gavinburnett]

The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy

He proposed in the dunes,
They were wed by the sea,
Their nine-day-long honeymoon,
Was on the isle of Capri,

For their supper they had one spectacular dish –
A simmering stew of molluscs and fish,
And while he savoured the broth,
Her bride’s heart made a wish,

That wish did come true – she gave birth
To a baby
But was the little one human?
Well,
Maybe!

Ten fingers, ten toes,
He had plumbing and sight
He could hear, he could feel
But normal?
Not quite

This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
Was the start and the end and the sum of their plight,

She railed at the doctor:
“He cannot be mine,
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine,”

“You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three eyes and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
You cannot blame me
… and have you considered, by chance,
A small home by the sea?”

Not knowing what to name him, they called him Sam
Or sometimes “That thing looks like a clam”
Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young oyster boy come out of his shell?

When the Thomson quadruplets espied him one day,
They called him bivalve and ran quickly away.

One spring afternoon Sam was left in the rain,
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Maine,
He watched the rain water as it swirled down the drain,

His mum on the motorway in the breakdown lane,
Was pounding the dashboard-
She couldn’t contain
The ever-rising grief, frustration and pain.

“Really sweetheart,” she said
“I don’t mean to make fun
Something smells fishy and I think its our son
I don’t like to say this, but it must be said,
You’re blaming our son for your problems in bed.”

He tried salve, he tried ointments and turned everything red,
He tried potions and lotions and tincture of lead,
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.


The doctor diagnosed,
“I can’t quite be sure,
But the cause of the problem may also be the cure,
They say oysters improve your sexual powers,
Perhaps eating your son, would help you do it for hours!”

He came on tiptoe,
He came on the sky,
Sweat on his forehead,
And on his lips – a lie.

“Son are you happy?
I don’t mean to pry,
But do you dream of heaven?
Have you wanted to die?”

Sam blinked his eyes twice,
But made no reply,
Dad fingered his knife,
And loosened his tie.

And he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat,
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat,

They buried him quickly,
-sighed a prayer,
-wept a tear,
And were back home by three

A cross of grey driftwood,
Marked oyster boys grave,
Words written in the sand promised,
Jesus would save

But his memory was lost with one high tide wave.

Back home safe in bed,
He kissed her and said,
“Let’s give it a whirl”

“But this time,” she whispered
“We’ll wish for a girl!”

Oh Gavin, that was so funny! I really enjoyed it. Well, 11 more to go!

[celticjack]

Gavin, lad: I've given copies o' these pieces t' me therapist....she'll be contactin' ya soon (something about "an obsession with physical aberrations" or something...)

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celticjack
Ar do slainte!