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David Gessner: A House That We Built: A Nursery Rhyme for the Gulf
By David Gessner
This is the oil that spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf
This is the marsh that breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
That now fills with oil
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the oyster, now besmeared, that lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.
This is the man, all forlorn, who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the fat cat, to the manor born,
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the Prez, of power shorn, who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the Gulf, round Florida’s horn, which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the storms, that have always torn,
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the warming, whose coming we mourn,
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the blowhard blowing his horn,
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the Ecos, of doom who warn,
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
And this is the car to which we have sworn,
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
And this is the thing that leaves us all lorn
That we put in the cars to which we have sworn
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
That we put in the cars to which we have sworn
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
Copyright 2010 Beacon Broadside
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This entry originally appeared at Beacon Broadside.
David Gessner is the author of several books, including Soaring with Fidel: An Osprey Odyssey from Cape Cod to Cuba and Beyond and is currently the editor of Ecotone, a literary journal. Gessner also teaches at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. The following nursery rhyme can be found on Gessner’s website with Bill Roorbach, titled Bill and Dave’s Cocktail Hour.
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