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Have you heard about the Sandsquatch
That used to live below beach sand
Where it could spring out from its watch
And get the upper wing, or hand

To gobble up seagulls resting
Surprising them from where they stood
But often he was digesting
Some nasty bits of driftwood

Of course that old mythical lore
When passed down seems hard to believe
About that morbid seagull gore
That plotline is hard to conceive

Yet, Sandsquatch must have kept the birds’
Population from exploding
Unlike those huge buffalo herds
Before their tragic railroading

It’s not far-fetched, there could have been
The sporadic cave child or man
Grabbed right from their ramshackle den
If built on or nearby beach sand

Yet ancient records have stated
That after centuries went by
That the poor Sandsquatch was fated
To become meat in a stir-fry

Because people became endeared
To spending long days on beach sand
Yet unexplainably disappeared
As if the beach became quicksand

Instantly Sandsquatch hunting groups
Were assembled and thus comprised
Of stalkers searching Sandsquatch poops
That always led them to their prize

There’s no ancient battles to watch
Although we know how it ended
With the extinction of Sandsquatch
So sadly dying unfriended

All resulting in crowded shorelines
Of sunbathers and plentiful gulls
With not one Sandsquatch danger sign
Yet often crabs live in squatch skulls

But maybe somehow, and someday
When they assemble Sandsquatch bones
That species may come back some way
Or at least as a fetching clone

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