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.