Storm in D Minor

Forty years upon this boardwalk,

forty summers in the sun!

I have sold ten thousand seashells and I've hated every one!

(Every one!) They wash up free as seagulls,

lads, I price them by the shine,

and the tourists pay four euros for what the ocean gave them

fine!

Shells! (Shells!) Beautiful shells!

What are they for?

Nobody can tell!

You hold them to your ear,

my friend, the sea is what you hear.

The sea! Which is RIGHT THERE.

Which is standing RIGHT THERE.

My father sold the seashells,

and his father sold them too.

A dynasty of calcium!

What else is there to do?

(Nothing else!) And when I die,

then bury me beneath my finest stock!

Shells! (Shells!) Beautiful shells!

Four euros. ...Three for ten.

...Fine, take it.

The ocean makes more.