A funny creature is my clam: He doesn't seem to give a damn About how anxiously I am Watching to see him move. Without the use of feet or toes Hands or fingers, eyes or nose, Straight across the sand he goes And leaves a groove. I cannot tell which way he'll face, When travelling from place to place: He may bewail his slothsome pace In much exasperation, And still, if he could talk aloud He @3might@1 be very, very proud That Nature had @3so well@1 endowed A clam with transportation. 'Tis plain he's Master of his Soul; He asks no aid to find his goal, Nor even hollow out a hole Wherein to dwell: He has no worry, nor a care, His food is in the water there, And when the gold fish come and stare, He shuts his shell. |