CLAMBAKES & other CookOuts
There's something about a ClamBake. You head out in the afternoon in your rolled up jeans and yer oldest shoes Pail in hand and bucket too and a shovel You dig and sift through sand and silt till your hands are caked in grime and weathered. The sweat on your brow shows toil, the rumble in your belly perseveres as you do You ache, you cry, the salt burns your eyes, as you gather each prize - encased The darkness comes and your pail is full and now the fun part of sitting on a bench and prying open your delights with a knife and waiting as the corn boils and the clams are baking Was it worth the struggle, the mire, the tussle You take your first bite shared with laughter and friends whose hair is mussed like yours and whose rearends are caked in mud and grit and other forms of beach type S**t and you sit and eat and eat and sit After plates are emptied and bellies filled over the last wisps of steam strike the cool night beach breezes the moment freezes and you relish the moment Yes, it was worth it.
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