THE NIGHT BEFORE PORCMAS,
or A Visit from Art Weil
 
'Twas the night before Porcmas, and all through Conchland
No computers were humming, there twitched not a hand.
Muricids were hung on the hall tree with care
And volutids and mitrids and turrids were there.
The piglets slept, nestled all snug in their stys,
With visions of nerites and Cypraeidaes:
Bobbi, Guido, and Dan Yoshimoto,
Carol and David and raffish Eduardo,
Patty and ferreter, Sylvia and Harry,
Marlo, Emilio, Kevin and Gary
(Really too many to enumerate,
Last count was three hundred seventy-eight!)
And all of them still as they lay in the straw
Snorting softly and drooling from sleep-gaping maw,
When, what did I hear? That squeal was too loud
To come from the Conchlers in my little crowd!
I rushed to the window, tripping over a clam,
Alert as a prisoner out on the lam,
Threw open the louvers, picked my jaw off the floor,
And vowed that I would drink eggnog no more.
Full moon on the ice of the frozen Ohio
Gave Porcville the luster of an endangered Unio.
And out in my yard, well lit by porch light,
Was Mr. Art Weil--and a really strange sight!
(I rubbed my eyes twice, but still it was there)
A museum cabinet hitched to flying porcdeer.
Leaping like cockles those porcdeer they came
As he snuffled and sputtered and called them by name:
"Now Pork Chop, now Piggie, now Spare Rib and Cracklin.
On Banger, on Bacon, on Headcheese and Chitlin!
To the top of the roof, to the top of the mall,
Now fry away, fry away, fry away all!"
As coquinas before the turning tide swim
Then meet with a wave and just hunker in,
So deep in the snow the porcdeer all snuggled.
While to open his cabinet Art gave quite a struggle,
Then willy-nilly, he flung shells into his pack.
As I slammed the louvers and staggered back,
Down the chimney I heard him come with a crash,
His whiskers they ignited in a right merry flash!
Dressed in tacky red corduroy from his head to his foot,
He tracked the rug o'er with ashes and soot.
His head how it twinkled, his eyes they were beady.
The fake fur round his middle was ever so seedy.
His pockets all stuffed with good Porcmas cookies,
Art looked less like an elf than an overdressed wookie!
He hummed offkey through his shiny red nose;
"Silver Shells" was the Porcmas carol he chose.
"Shh," he said archly. "The Museum won't know
If nobody tells where these specimens go."
And he filled all the stockings of all the collectors
With what you might call museum-drawer defectors.
In Paul Drez's stocking some Amaldas Art dropped,
E. Power's rare ligs went in with a plop!
Bob Lipe, a good boy, did Margin shells win,
While for Charlie a clapping of pectens Sturmed in,
Vitrinella for Gunderson, world records for Hutsell,
Land snails for Nisters; for DWills, some rare mussels.
Doug Shelton got NICE snails from Alabam's shelf,!
But Old Art kept the wentletraps back for himself.
Bag empty, he stretched himself out on the couch,
Munched cookies, and napped and then woke from his slouch.
One terebra was left in the bag; he said, "Shell!
I'll give it to dealer Paul Monfils to sell."
Then rubbing a finger atop his bald head,
He gave me to know I had nothing to dread!
Art noticed the fire blazing bright 'cross my floor,
So he turned and departed straight through my front door.
He jumped on his cabinet, sent his porkers a squeal,
And home they all flew for a post-Porcmas meal.
Every brave little pigdeer then filled up its belly
With baked beans and coleslaw, applesauce and mint jelly,
While Art smacked his lips on a Porcmas confection
And said, "What would YOU do with an orphaned collection?
I may not be great shakes as a Conch-L poet,
But when I sees a good shell, I knows just where to stow it!
I think I've done what is good and is right!
Merry Porcmas to all, and to all a good night!"
 
--Andy Rindsberg and Lynn Scheu