There are certain thing—as, a spider, a ghost
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three—
That I hate, but the thing that I Hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea

Pour some salt water over the floor
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be;
Suppose it extended a mile or more;
That's very like the Sea

Beat a dog 'till it howls outright
Cruel, but all very well for a spree
Suppose that he did so day and night—
That would be like the Sea

I had a vision of nursery-maids
Tens of thousands passed by me
All leading children with wooden spades
And this was by the Sea

Who invented these spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could—
Or one who loved the Sea

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With `thoughts as boundless and souls as free':
But, suppose you are very unwell in a the boat
How do you like the Sea?

There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb `to flee')
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs
A decided hint of salt in your tea
And a fishy taste in the very eggs
By all means choose the Sea

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree
And a chronic state of wet in your feet
Then—I recommend the Sea

For I have friends who dwell by the coast-
Pleasant friends they are to me
It is when I am with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the Sea.

They take me a walk; though tired and stiff
to climb the heights I madly agree
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the Sea

I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee
As I heavily slip into every pool
That skirts the cold, cold Sea

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