'...Pass the plankton please,
don't ask for my keys...'
Clem clam then went to the bar in the cellar
(apropos don't you think, for a bottom-dweller?)
"How would you like some nice wet sand?"
said the basement barman, "We'll give you a hand,
you can slip under it, and still hear the band,
We do our best for such handsome clams!
and we know all about your preferences here,
so no bar gull will pester to buy her a beer,
but sultry mollusks will prance on our stage
and they'll make you feel that you're half of your age
and later, dear clam, when you're feeling real fine
we'll prepare you the finest steam bath in white wine
with our VIP treatment, by the end of the night
you'll relax, and 'open up' -no longer uptight!"
these words meant to sooth, had a different effect
our clam felt a tingle the whole length of his neck
He suddenly experienced a strong urge to run
he forgot about mollusks, and booze and fun,
of course he couldn't put a finger on 'it'
but a now -intense fear filled his stomach pit...
[sorry folks to interrupt your fun, but that, alas, concludes chapter one]