"Conch Meat" - Bahamas AI Art
©A. Derek Catalano
Don't Beat Me Like Conch
From turquoise depths, a treasure drawn,
The conch, a life, a Bahamian dawn.
Its spiraled house, a pearly throne,
Yet on the block, it makes its moan.
The hammer falls, a rhythmic dread,
To break the will, the flesh to spread.
A culinary rite, they say it's best,
To pound it thin, put chew to test.
Don't beat me like conch, I cry,
Beneath a searing, endless sky.
The wooden mallet, scarred and old,
A story of the sea, I'm told.
Each strike a shock, a muscle's tear,
Transforming strength to tender fare.
Soaked in lime, with peppers bright,
A delicacy, a pure delight.
But when the hand that wields the blow
Belongs to those who ought to know
The people's heart, its fragile trust,
And grinds our hopes into the dust,
Don't beat me like conch, I plead,
Don't sow that bitter, bruising seed.
They mount the podium, voices ring,
Of prosperous days the songs they sing.
With honeyed words and practiced smile,
They charm the trusting for a while.
A litany of vows proclaimed,
Our future bright, meticulously framed.
Then deals are struck in shadowed rooms,
As silent hopes become our tombs.
The promises, like shells, are cracked,
Integrity is what they've lacked.
The truth submerged, the waters riled,
A nation's spirit is defiled.
Don't beat me like conch, I shout,
Let honesty at last break out!
