Boys Will Be Buoys

 OFT HAPPENS on the summer solstice

On the Isle of Moor,  just off Atlantis

 To cure the boys of colds and bronchitis

 Keeping them well so they can apprentice.

Captain Quack brews the boys blowfish tea

Prescribing sometimes as many as three

 Then sets sail with the lads, "Hard alee!"

(Just sayin,' seems suspicious to me.)

For blowfish puffs up inside your knee

You get laryngitis and top heavy

After the boys get their voices back

  Quack fixes them another snack.

He tells their mothers, "They're sick indeed"

They plead, "Return them!" Says he, "No need

Take head, my treatment is gratis

If you declare me loco parentis."

He knots anchors around the boy's necks

Blimey! Parents look like shipwrecks

As he tosses their children into the drink

All watch as down to the bottom they sink.

First rise the bubbles with a gushing noise

After that, the now buoyant boys

Ships tether to legs which look more like toys

No troubles, no poise, Quack's off to St. Croix's.

  Post Script

Boy ahoy! Boy ahoy!

Hope this tale won't kill your joy

Don't drink blowfish––it'll make you screwy

And if you're a boy, you'll turn into a buoy.

Poached Soul

SHE COLLECTED
The prettiest shells at the shore

Thought, "The sea won't miss those I adore

I need many more to sell in my store"

Poseidon roared, "Stop! I implore!"

'Twas written in nautical lore.

She used to make trinkets and rings galore

Sold  them recklessly; she wasn't poor

Got locked in a shell–spit up on the shore
For another collector to pick up off the floor.

'Twas written in nautical lore.

Laughing, she sticks her head out the conch

Upon her paunch she hides her tranche

Skin's the color of poached soul–or a blanch

For eternity she's lost her panache.

Probably end up as somebody's cache.

How The Mollusk Got Its Stripes

A HAUGHTY HIGH-HATTED ROYAL named La La

Rode on the beach calling, "Ta ta, ta ta"

Her prosaic pale-yellow mollusk carriage

'Twas a vehicle which I have to disparage.

Though powered  by zebra

Of stripes that would please ya

This lack-luster shell did not ring my bell

A visual fact that made La La unwell.

She stopped at El Mar

Where the azure spread far

To water her zebras

Dried out from their seizures.

A flock of magpies fond of her hat

Nested in there and that was that

One of them pecked at La La's cranium

Out came her brainium, hue of geranium.

It flowed down her arm right onto the mollusk

The stream was robust; she lamented, "Tsk, tusk"

Startled, the zebras reared up and down

 Imprinting stripes on the shell all around.

Now the ride of the Queen of Zebras

Outshines that of the Queen of Sheba's

La La's mind is now vacant; but I've no gripes–

Small price to pay for the mollusk's stripes.