This is a piece I call:
"shell doggerel composed in impatient anticipation of an upcoming field trip
to Eleuthera with Bobbi Cordy and her shell club"


I fear that I may never find,
the xenophora on my mind.
You'll know how badly I am hooked,
when under every rock I've looked.

The carrier shell is but one,
I seek beneath Bahamian sun.
For once I'd like a cone that's bigger
than a runty infant chigger.

I found some strombs, but roostertail,
would make my heart pound without fail,
Two costatus in my display,
invite raninus "come and play".

I know it would be loads of fun,
to trip upon a giant tun.
I'd dance along like Tiny Tim,
with shells for me and blooms for him.

And while I've got a hairy triton,
for femorale I'll be sightin'.
There's something 'bout a fine Cymatium,
that gives my heart a palpitation.

Armed with snorkel, fins and mask,
I'll approach this happy task.
For some murex, I'll be searchin',
risking wrath of eel and urchin.

And I hope to learn a thing or four,
'bout gastropods along the the shore,
'bout cowries and clams and where they range,
with folks who don't find my hobby strange.

People who don't turn green and pale,
at the slightest little whiff of snail.
(No family yelling "What's that smell?",
when all I did was clean a shell)

Where we'll find them, there's no Tellin,
the question's "if", when you are shellin'.
What shells I'll get, I cannot say,
But I'll meet new friends along the way.