Charles J. March III

Oysters Rockefeller

The world is my oyster, but it needs blandishments to make it bearable. Life is just too raw. Only the Rockefellers of the world can have their oysters in such a way, whereas I’m left to toil in the sour blood, sweat, and tears of Tabasco. Even before I was a pearl in my Father’s protandric eye, I was spat out of his gash, and had to cling to survive. Call me an oyster crab, but I’m just venting through a bivalve. I wonder if my pedantically placed irritants will ever get a salve. Since I was dredged from the bottom of my demure demesne, I’ve been consumed for acts some consider profane. The sails in my sloop are still trying to unfurl; Oh shucks, whatever, I’ll still give life a whirl. And maybe, who knows, I’ll string together some nacre. Or I’ll denounce depuration, and be judged by my maker.

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