He's found where water's near.
His average age is quite uncertain.
My guess, I'd say two years.
He takes to caves when foes are lurkin'.
He lives a life occult,
A sandy beach could be a fine place.
On shore, his form is hid
From view of primates.

Ten legs, that's quite a few,
But of the ten, just two have pincers.
At risk when his shell is new,
With mate in view, he waves those clinchers.
His spouse, he guards with force.
When time is right, to coast, they migrate.
Offshore, the hatched eggs swim
And live as live bait.

Just to survive, they must find food,
And then head to shore with attitude.
With hormones' help, the young get stout,
Then brace to moult and slither out.
Escape the shell,
Again to swell,
And do it by stage.

While young, he has to hide
Until his shell has hardened smoothly.
And then, no fears reside,
He fights off foes, those intruding.
He digs in mud and sand,
Communicates his yen to find mates
With tones and pheromones
And claws that gyrate.

Oh, what is a crab? What's with those claws?
Without his shell, he's more like prawns.
He preys on things he views and feels.
All sorts of food make up his meals.
And he might boast,
"I crossed the coast
And did it sideways!"

"Yes, did it sideways!"