A Nursery Rhyme For the Gulf

The House That We Built: A Nursery Rhyme For the Gulf


This is the oil that spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.

This is the marsh that breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf. 

This is the oyster, now besmeared, that lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.

This is the man, all forlorn, who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

These are the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the fat cat, to the manor born,

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the Prez, of power shorn, who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the Gulf, round Florida’s horn, which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

These are the storms, that have always torn,

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the warming, whose coming we mourn,

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

This is the blowhard blowing his horn,

Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

These are the rules that prick like a thorn

Into the blowhard blowing his horn

Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

These are the Ecos, of doom who warn,

Who want more rules that prick like a thorn

Into the blowhard blowing his horn

Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

And this is the car to which we have sworn,

To love and protect and to not fuel with corn

(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)

Who want more rules that prick like a thorn

Into the blowhard blowing his horn

Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

And this is the thing that leaves us all lorn

That we put in the cars to which we have sworn

To love and protect and to not fuel with corn

(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)

Who want more rules that prick like a thorn

Into the blowhard blowing his horn

Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn

That now fuels the storms, that have always torn

Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,

Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn

Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born

Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,

Who follow the writers who roll in each morn

To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,

Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared

That lives near the marsh

That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,

That now fills with oil,

That spills from the pipe

And gushes into the Gulf.

---

And Ecotone, our literary journal.

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