The Opening comes and it goes,
Along with its fierce undertows.
There can be nothing fiercer
Than a storm-force sou’easter.
When’s the next one? Nobody knows …
A clammer who lived at Cape Pogue
Wore clothes that were scarcely
When he went into town,
All the people would frown
And tell him he looked like a rogue.
Chappaquiddick is noted for flies,
Poison ivy, and soggy french fries.
It also has mansions
Built by folks with pretansions.
Rising tides will cut them down to size.
A reek of Tabu from Eel Pond
Reached as far as Main Street
When they searched for its source,
They found in due course
A — garment — once worn by a blonde.
A paranoid clam down Katama
Was stricken with megalomania.
“Just call me King Clyde!”
He announced far and wide,
Then was raked up and served in paella.
While Cow Bay in summer’s delightful,
Its aspect in winter is frightful.
The storms pounding in
Take the beach for a spin,
Leaving messes most truly unsightful.
A tragic young man from Quansoo
Could never decide what to do.
Though he labored in thought,
It all came to naught.
So they made him go live at Tashmoo.
A careless young teen from Squibnocket
Was given a jolly big rocket.
On the 4th of July,
As he gazed at the sky,
It blew up in his right trouser pocket.
Pirate treasure in Chilmark they say!
So we searched for it day after day.
But our searches were fraught
By wild turkeys, who caught
Our poor leader and marched him away.
A gaffer once born in Menemsha
Had been many years in absentia.
When at length he came back,
He found his old shack
Now housed a boutique called Pretensia.
A car wreck at Beetlebung Corners
Attracted some Gorey-esque mourners.
All passengers dead?
No more to be said.
So the mourners morphed straight
Lambert’s Cove was once full of
Who refused to hob-nob with their
At the end of the day,
Their hübris gave way
To Tisbury’s grim tax assessors.
A distinguished stockbroker from
Developed an urge to play be-bop.
After many a day
Of his pounding away,
His kin sent him packing to East Chop.
East Chop is friendly to be-bop
And equally comfy with hip-hop.
Though the stockbroker stayed,
He never more played
What got him in trouble in
’Neath the waters of Sengekontacket
Lurk some golf balls and one
They were hurled there one day
By an odd chap named Clay
Wearing only a kapok life jacket.
When leaves fall from trees
Its denizens wax melancholic-y.
To help them cheer up,
I serve them Pimm’s Cup
In a classical vase of majolikey.
West Tisbury Grange has been home
To farmers be-dappled with loam.
It once was a school
For some children named Poole,
And has now given birth to this pome.
The lens at Gay Head’s a Fresnel,
A French word that’s tricky to spell.
Though you spell it with “s,”
You don’t say “s,” unless
You were brought up in Coromandel.