The Longshoreman’s Glove
She spat,“go fuck yourself!”
And futilely crammed the useless oyster blade
Into the little creature tightly fisted deep within
The giant, flacid blue longshoreman’s glove,
While throttling it around.
“I said you shuck yourself,”
And pointed to the crusty sign that lay
Against the rail, unwisely guaranteeing that the sin
Of Onan was to be the only love
The night watch bell would sound.
“Perhaps she’d win the pelf,”
I mused, as bits of shell were hacked and flayed,
“If that sweet curse was gently whispered to the flesh therein.”
For wise men know that plying with a shove
Ne’re renders them unbound.
An oyster by itself
You see, is both a cuckold and a maid.
And through this self-fertility, if stroked to spawn its kin,
Will part its shell and loose the liquor of
Which all its spat abound.
Alas, had I contained myself,
Then fumbling hands might suffer to be stayed.
The shell of valor’s better half protects that softer skin
Now clenched in the longshoreman’s glove;
No oyster to bed down.