Sam the Clam was always a diligent planner.
When the guns of autumn would start to hammer,
Not long after the howling newts ceased jumping,
It was the time for his one foot to start pumping.
He'd set on the journey to insure his survival.
With a pop and a pull, and jump and a spiral,
A burp and a phfitt, and a blow and a suck,
He'd wriggle and flop through the slime and the muck.
When the Carols of Christmas had hit their peak
Early morning trucks would arrive, without a peep.
Santa like men, decked out in waders of rubber,
Had visions of clam bellies at rest in their blubber.
To get under the boardwalk and bury close to a post,
Was Sam's grand plan of which he'd not boast,
Lest a bunch of littleneck would hop in his bed
To avoid a horseradish blanket which every clam dreads.