I love to look at snails,
‘cos they’re slimy little things.
I like to see their silver trails
on the grass’s wrinkly fringe.
I love the eyes that vanish,
when I poke them with a stick.
I love the way their spotted shells
crunch from just a little kick.
Mummy says that’s naughty
and I shouldn’t be so cruel,
but she poisons her whole vegie patch,
who does she think she fools?
My sister, she won’t touch them,
‘cos they make her skin go crawly
so I stuffed one down her neck
and now she feels quite poorly.
Still, I’d love to have a snail
as a very special pet
I’d take it to the letterbox
so it could eat the mail.
I’d set it in a gutter,
on a leaf made as a boat.
Mummy told me not to,
‘cos it will never float.
I wouldn’t let it try to eat
my nanna’s pretty blouses,
or let it make a silvery trail,
upon my grandpa’s trousers.
I said I’d wash it in the sink,
I know it likes the water,
but Mummy said she didn’t think
that I had better oughta.
I’d like to take it into bed
to watch it slowly slither
but Mummy told me if I do,
I might just wake up dead.
(and not from the snail!)
I’ve learnt it’s cruel to poke snails’ eyes,
it’s mean to crush their shells.
So, what I’ll do is watch them trail
through Mummy’s garden patch,
but write a sign to warn them
that they may have met their match.