Don’t Prod the Rubble
Dale Jones

If you’re walking on the beach
On a stormy day
You might find some fishy things
Blown up in your way
If you’re queasy or squeamish
You should stay away
‘Cause the rubble on the beach
Can hide some scary things

But she’s walking on the sand
And it’s in her way
A boogly-eyed thing
All green and grey
It’s lost ‘bout half its stuffing
And it’s soaked with spray
If she has a lick of sense
She’ll probably run away

Don’t prod the rubble
Don’t prod the rubble
Don’t prod the rubble
If you’re faint of heart
Don’t prod the rubble
It could be trouble
Don’t prod the rubble
Of a broken heart

She pokes it with a stick
And it crawls away
Dolefully regarding her
From out of range
She’s staring at the thing
As it slinks away
She asks it what it is
And she hears it say:

I’m flotsam, I’m jetsam
I’m a castaway
I’m the loneliest thing
That’s washed up today
My ship has run aground
In the rocks and waves
Now I’m slimy crawling wreckage
With a scary face