Fives, fives, fives, fives…
five-liners could be viewed as silly.
Well, this pentamerous verse
is about a gent who’s cursed
and lost half a pound—that’s his willie.

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There once was a man from Nantucket,
Gland clamped by a clam in Pawtucket.
He cursed like an old tar
Clambered to Nan’s clam bar,
Ex-clamatory, he: “Nan, shuck it!”

Nan glanced down at his glandular plight,
And pronounced as she gandered the site:
“I ain’t gonna scold ya—
I guess no one told ya—
These mad mollusks can maul ya. . .they bite!”

Now, Nan was not kosher, yet Jewish
She’s a yenta, thus a bit shrewish
He is hoping, this goy’ll
Not get the ersatz mohel
Treatment where it’s now turning bluish.

She turned and went out to the kitchen
While the victim was loudly bitchin’
“When this thing is removed,
My own thing will be grooved;
I’ll have to go in for some stitchin’!”

Nan returned, and she had a shucker,
Which she’d nicknamed the “Molluscplucker.”
She said to the victim:
“I’m now gonna stick in
The blade, to make the mollusk pucker.”

The clam-clamped man had trepidation
His mind decamped in speculation,
Like: “What if she misses?
I might be a missus,
A her!” Then he heard crepitation:

A sound like a nun knuckle-smacker
Perhaps the crunch of a nutcracker
Then he felt a slight shift
Of the bivalval rift
The shell still held him well, though slacker.

The sound became an ostinato—
Nan was going clamo-a-mano.
She said to him: “Don’t budge
You might make me misjudge
And might well become a soprano!”

In his nose floated a mote of dust:
Tickle pickle. . .nasally nonplussed.
Though he strove to hold it,
He could not control it.
Out was blown a crone-dethroning gust.

So Nan’s hand ran amok, and the shmuck
Who’s gland-clamped was then damn out of luck.
’cause her aim went errant,
He’d ne’er be a parent;
In deer terms, he was no more a buck.

The poor fellow then howled out in pain;
Nan exclaimed: “Hell, your loss is my gain.”
To chef she yelled louder:
“Put this in the chowder
Made of clams that just shipped in from Maine.”

Then Nan, quick-witted imp with grim grin,
Lipped a quip to the de-dicked’s chagrin:
“He’s just a little short;
We could cook it in port
And then serve it up as ‘coq au vin’.”

The fellow, now helplessly gelded,
Asked Nan, who’d de-manned, “What the hell did
You do with that clam knife?!
I hope that there’s still life
In it and on it can be welded!!”

So off he went to see a surgeon,
With it bagged, limp as a dead sturgeon.
With high hopes that the doc
Could restock him with cock
And again it would prowedly [sic] burgeon.

But doc said, “There must have been kinky
Goings-on; now, were this your pinky,
I could sew it back on,
But I fear that what’s gone
Can’t be re-schlonged; adieu, your dinky.”

The patient then screamed out: “Oy vey!!”
It was inflected in a goy way.
He said, “Doc, gawk at this—
‘De-socked’. . .like a botched Bris.
Now I can no more with my toy play!!”

The doc said, “My poor boy, that’s correct:
You have nothing left there to inflect.
And there’s no prosthetic.”
The patient, splenetic,
Said, “I have nothing to get erect.”