Poseidon

Not the kindest of folk,

He's the God of the sea,

One most avoid when angry. 

Poseidon is his name

Though he goes by many

When he rises from the sea to play a game, 

The beaches run empty. 

He surfs all day long, 

With the wind in his hair and not a single care. 

California is where he resides,

With a natural tan and muscles for days,

One can't help but gaze upon him only from afar 

Lest they want their head to end up in a jar. 

He finds stares to be rude 

And if he ever gets called a dude 

He'll strike his trident in the ground 

And you'll become fish food.