Our night tonight, I hear Cthulhu's roar.
A soup of clam cum, goo from mollusk ass
Shark spit, fish urine, seagull snot and more
Doth churn and crash in waves against a mix
Of ground-up glass, shell bits, rocks, plant rot, and
Some severed feet and rubber ducks and sticks.
I guess that stuff is commonly called sand,
The fluid called the sea, but let's be real:
A Great Old One won't live just anywhere
In anywhat. I'm sure, though, that he'd feel
At home wheree'er he wants, would never care
If it were blood or water where he swam
As long as he's believers, which I am.
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