a speckled snail


One day I ate a mushroom
And traveled with a snail,
Who led me down some sort of path,
A crazy winding trail.

The locomotion of the snail
Would lose him any race:
He stops and starts, goes inch by inch,
In silent, solemn grace.

Why are snails so slow? I thought,
Moving with their shells?
But on his back, he has to pack
The home in which he dwells.

We follow high, we follow low,
Beside a mossy rill;
Through buttercups and dandelions,
Around a daffodil.

Profoundly simple is his way,
How does he navigate?
He doesn’t have a home or place,
Nor does he have a mate.
…“A mate!
….A mate!
….A mate!”
Cried he—
“I haven’t time to wait!”

Then stopped somewhere, along a glen,
Beneath a trumpet vine;
And dipped into its scarlet cup,
And took a sip of wine.

Hurry on! I said to him,
Or I’ll leave you on your way!
But locked I am in fantasy,
So here I am to stay.

A crazy winding trail, it was,
A crazy winding trail.

With eyes that looked like rubber knobs
He fixed upon my size;
Then he focused on my face
And peered into my eyes.

Undulating, wiggly snakes,
The stalks above his head:
A roving pair of periscopes
That sometimes droop’d instead.

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