After a summer of beaches Mr. Meeching,
Dressed as always in flannel and bristling tweed,
Applied his tanned physique again to teaching
Shelley and Meeching and how to (romantically) bleed.

Standing before his first class with the erotic
Air of the Cape still curling his hair,
He thought of the sand and the breakers, and of an exotic
Quohaug chowder with camembert.

Abstracted, class roll in hand, he let his gaze wander
Lazily out over thirty-three heads to a dim
Window where trees became masts and grass water
And lobsters crawled on the steps of the briny gym.

Sadly recalled to the roll, the text and the faces,
He saw stretched before him a continent of drab
And merely poetic commonplaces
With nary a long-necked clam or soft-shelled crab.

Poor Meeching.
Would he ever again get through to the ocean side?
He doubted it,
Having no thoughts to comfort his soul in his dark night of teaching
Except that lucky old Shelley (by drowning) died.