I
How pale and frail,
my snails — and slow.
A shiny slime trail
is left as they go.
Among all the dregs,
dibbling plants.
Do not wish you had legs,
else you'd have to buy pants.
III
There once was a snail with legs,
who wanted to fertilise eggs.
But a eunuch he be,
no 'middle leg', see?
'twas doomed, he'd never have seggs.
II
Men are naught but snails with legs,
sliding round as instinct begs.
Men are plodding clockwork shells,
who wake and eat to Pavlov's bells.
Men mask impulse as free will,
men won't cop to nature, still.
Men pretend that they've cut loose
all 'til something needs excuse.
Men are puny, men are slime,
men amble slowly, die in time.
Men are but evolution's dregs,
little more than snails with legs.
IV
With no dart to fire, I've languished all week.
Inshelled living leaves affairs looking bleak.
Too cloistered a world - too internal, serene.
Back-home belies the snails' routine.
No teeth to cut loose, just a barbed tongue.
No legs for that matter, - want I only to run.
All my desires, "if". And my memories, "then".
Conducting my fate: no gypsobelum.