SNAIL TRIAL

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.

Alix Phelan