The sun in December shone brightly
On the beach and the marsh day and nightly;
Asked the Walrus with dread,
“Foul our oyster-friends’ bed?”
Sobbed the Carpenter, "They can't do that rightly."

"What to think of this vista of pluff-mud?
If you stand there you'll sink; it's not tough mud.
Seven maids, seven mops,
They clearly would be flops."
Moped the Walrus, "There's not nearly enough mud."

"Great environment! What could be finer
Than the pluff-mud of South Carolina?
For you oysters, I mean."
(Voiced with appetite keen)
"See you later at Bill's Seafood Diner."

"They disgust almost all girls and boysters;
Jews must shun them, I trust, but not goysters.
Coastal feast I love most
Is that Lowcountry Roast
Where they shovel up clusters of oysters."

The Carpenter claimed, "I'm unwilling
To condone any offshore oil drilling.
If my home were the marsh,
You can bet I would be harsh
Over every small droplet they're spilling."

The sun in December shone brightly
On the billows (that's odd!) day and nightly;
When the Carpenter pled,
“Please don't foul that oyster bed.”
Sobbed the Walrus, "They can't do that rightly."