This oyster roast’s become a Rorschach test:
the white-haired pair, like Norman Bates, are killers:
“Stab down, dear!” Dives has on a paisley vest;
his opens smoothly, as he sips his Millers
and smirks toward our rector’s Yankee wife,
who gouges madly for the precious crack.
She smiles, unnerved; her fingers clutch the knife.
“No, no—the trick is in your wrist attack,”
the senior warden says as he hoists a shell,
and there’s the sex-aping flesh for all to see.
“Wish it were this tough getting into Hell,”
the choir director says. The sexton, our free
spirit, grabs and slams a dripping shell:
“Die, sucker!” We love the impropriety.
*****