Crab In the Kitchen Sink

i am a Dungeness crab with my claws now strapped with rubber bands, my food and my hiding hole taken away, leaving me seated in someone else’s kitchen sink sinking with my manuscripts, pens, papers and pencils to my death like a doomed rapist murderer ready to walk, nay, sit on the electric chair, soon to be flushed out as staunch stink but even here i have not lost my control to give, to give self as food, age old whine my writing in heart, that poem, my protest against being a puck in the skating rink