She used to sell seashells
upon the seashore;
but, now,
she sells seashells no more –
not since she saw a sea-saw, there.
Perhaps it was the cheap wine
that she drank,
or the downturn in demand
for seashells;
but, when she started hallucinating,
she knew,
that she,
had sold her last sea frippery.
Now, she lives in a hut on the hill,
centuries have passed,
but she lives there still;
if you should see her,
give her a wave,
she’s sure to wave back,
though her features be grave.
