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.