She sells seashells
by the seashore; certain local swells
buy seashells.

She sells seashells;
sand, a mote, is toted in their humble
home known as shells.

She’ll give you, won’t shiv you, she’ll give you
a break in price you pay
in hopes that you will stay
and then come with her to terms RE: dough;
there’s no underhand.

Seashells sell well.
Banking notes are toted and tumble
from pocket wells.
The seafood, the seafood, the seafood,
a sweet delicacy,
is eaten so you see
the filling food gulped by some dude—
left ’s a shiny sheen.
Bye, gulped food.

“Buy one, two! Buy one, two! Buy one, two!”
Redundantly she sounds;
she’ll take dollars, yen, pounds.
Her till is huge; her bill, not huge;
there’s no underhand.

She sells seashells
by the seashore where waves come in swells,
just lazy swells.

But as the day goes on, it’s burned, her nose. . .
eschewed sunscreen plan.
Fried, she yells.