Locksmith un(dur) ess

Soon's the nettle stings,
Doth the sand witch king
in bloated bloomed capricious rings
         of heavens smells
         by sweet ravels
of salt beleagured turbid things.

And beached and lying on the shore
With pockets opener than doors
The lousy locker much implores
the task of shelling clams as chore.
         
         Angst in and out,

Above fair tete
without much thought to living, yet
quite dead and drowned inside the swell
of wishy washed out tuna fell.