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Beachcomber
BEACHCOMBER
You comb the beaches
Detailed to the inches
At least you might be fortunate
To get even a wanton mate
Your line you carry
You look like one in hurry
But your eyes are sharp
Ready to the unlucky one map
The bait is appetizing
Drooping with mock rejoicing
But microbes it sports
Found in promiscuous ports
But sailors on it fall
And purge their worries -- all
After paying the toll
Then you automatically smoke them over the rack
With ss behind your bare back
You examine your levy
And say, They die of envy
Your heart is never heavy
But your speech is wavy
Copyright ©
Sam Mucheke
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