An oyster’s surely a clammy creature
Not noted for brains, brilliance, bravery,
Or anything you’d look for a teacher
To have. Think “oyster”, when you look at me.

All of my clutching has left me with hollow fists.
My ivory towers lie in ruin.
I only interest archaeologists
Who poke through old dumps, and scrape with a spoon
Seeking some sense in a wreak.

                                                                        I surmise
They’ve time on their hands, and lots of leisure
And it comes as something of a surprise
When the ruin, in fact, holds a treasure.

A poet’s an oyster. Give one a whirl
For the clammy old creature may give you a pearl.

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