That You Ever Existed

Terence has found the eggs, wrapped in the poem.

He knew where they were all the time.

In his shorts pocket.

In case they got ruined, says Terence.

Well done, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Is that something you know from experience?

Yes, says Terence. I nearly ruined Saint Roley.

A saint? says Alexander-Red-Hook.

Not when I nearly ruined him, says Terence. He was an egg at the time.

IN an egg? asks Alexander-Red-Hook.

Yes, in it, says Terence. So was his brother.

In the same egg? asks Alexander-Red-Hook.

No, another one, silly, says Terence.

Don't call me silly, says Alexander-Red-Hook. I wasn't to know. May I see the poem?

Terence unwraps it.

The eggs are exposed, a lump of small blobs stuck together.

Aah, sighs Alexander-Red-Hook. Read me the poem.

Can't, says Terence. You read it.

So she reads it.

It's an emotional moment. Her dead friend's eggs, her memory.

My love is like a red red rose

sniff sniff.

That's newly sprung in June

My love is like the melodie

sniff sniff

That's sweetly played in tune.

The other crabs climb out of their salad bowls to listen.

So it's lucky that Terence had forgotten his task.

Otherwise, they would not have the freedom to listen to this moving elegy to Alexander Yellowsun and her sticky posterity.

So fair art thou my bonnie lass...

O it's too much!

We should all have one, says Alexander-Curly.

What? asks Alexander-Retro.

A moving elegy, for after, says Alexander-Curly. Imagine. You die. And what is there left behind to remind others you ever existed?

Remains, says Terence. They rot and smell. Alexander-Red-Hook said so.

In another context, says Alexander-Red-Hook.

That's exactly why we should have our own poem, says Alexander-Curly. Rot and smell..... newspaper..... rubbish. The alternative future.

That's right, Alexander-Curly.

Each crab should have his or her own poem.

Perhaps Terence will help you.