He was a gentle lobster,
(The boats had just come in,)
He did not love the fishermen,
He could not stand their din;
And so he quietly stole off,
As if it were no sin.
She was a little maiden,
He met her on the sand,
“And how d’you do?” the lobster said,
“Why don’t you give your hand?”
For why she edged away from him
He could not understand.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the maiden said,
“Excuse me, if you please,”
And put her hands behind her back,
And doubled up her knees,
“I always thought that lobsters were
A little apt to squeeze.”
“Your ignorance,” the lobster said,
“Is natural, I fear,
Such scandal is a shame,” he sobbed,
“It is not true, my dear!”
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped away a tear.
So out she put her little hand,
As though she feared him not,
When some one grabbed him suddenly
And put him in a pot,
With water which I think he found
Uncomfortably hot.
It may have been the water made
The blood flow to his head,
It may have been that dreadful fib
Lay on his soul like lead:
This much is true,—he went in gray,
And came out very red.