The land of Seasewn            So cool and crisp  The breeze sends a light mist  Travelling through the day and night  Landing on every site   The village folk think its grand  To live in the grass but eat all the sand  The village folk you see  Are not like you and me  Their homes are made of conch shells   While their heads are made of Ribbed Catharus   Their spaghetti is sand with hints of sand fleas   Sprinkled about   In a jubilee