Old Mrs. Chili on her porch rail sat,
Mumbling low to her long-dead cat.
With chips and pie,
She’d wave “good-bye”
To tourists who wondered at that.

She loved an old fella from Perry,
Who loved seeing kids laugh and be merry.
He baked them some pies,
But to their surprise—
He’d eaten clean through the blueberry!

One night power out—no TV channel—
The townsfolk rose in boots and flannel.
When the hill grew still,
And the air turned chill,
They muttered, “Ayuh, that’s coastal scandal.”

Then clang, clang, clang! the foghorn groaned,
And every house in the harbor moaned.
The town, half-awake,
Felt the hilltop shake—
Storm passed with the yarn of it enthroned.

‘bout how Mary Crete, so brisk and neat,
Spun off the road into the sleet.
She skidded deep,
Right into the creek—
She’ll tell that yarn to all she meets.

Down in town by the morning’s gray,
They gossip still, as Mainers say:
“Ayuh, that fog’ll keep you there,
Between the tide and salty air—
You’ll never quite leave the bay.”

Up a spruce, a grumble grew—
Old George Lark met a hornet or two.
He swore and slapped,
His patience snapped—
Miss Ryde played till the hornets flew.

He cursed in tones the gulls found sweet,
Then slapped his cap and took defeat.
As Miss Ryde, with her ukulele blue,
Strummed Danny Boy all the way through.
Till George fell. (he landed on his feet).

There once was a man, Mr. K,
Who sought lobster rolls by the bay.
But pinching his penny,
He bought onions—too many—
And honey for lunch on a tray.

His wife, Ischia, dressed for the spree,
Ate whoopie pies under a tree.
With slicker and grin,
She let crumbs kiss her chin—
A picnic of pure jubilee.

A Lady from Otter Creek,
Made those whoopie pies twice a week.
When tourists asked, “Why?”
She said with a sigh,
“’Cause wicked good things don’t come cheap.”

George Lark took his tender for a float,
Said, “Land’s not the thing that’ll tote.”
He circled the bay,
In a nautical way—
Then sank from the hole in his boat.

The town grew more splendid and strange,
With tourists in curious range.
They stitched up the breeze
With a salt-scented sneeze—
A patchwork of dockside exchange.

A bright Spanish gal from the shore
Climbed lobster crates, eager for more.
Though waves made a fuss,
She said, “Don’t discuss—
My mainland roots I’ll still adore.”

A Lady from Otter Creek,
Raised lobsters that learned to speak.
They’d gossip at dawn,
Till she sold ’em and gone,
Now they’re podcastin’ every week.