The slosh and strand of crisp?
Grandeur; Variety
But you know
Feet cooling down on the bank
Here am I
Making chowder with the fruit of my labor
Making chowder with the fruit of my labor
Shimmery scales
Sandy shells in piles on the threshing counter
Do not
Suppose I am a grizzled fisherman
Sailing indifferently through the mist
A sailor is picturesque
Not I
I just like chowder