It’s hard to be a snail.
When there’s no rain or hail
For a year.
I am in despair.
There is an awful drought
Not much water is about.
Plants that were juicy green
Are hard, and dry, and taste obscene.
No longer is there the pleasure of soaking for an hour.
In a sprinkling shower
Now, water comes in a quick bucket burst
That knocks you off your perch,
Once I got a bath of scented soap
Which boosted ego beyond my wildest hope.
I strutted in the garden with striding pride
Which is very strange because a snail can never stride
Mostly I get soaked from the kitchen sink
A filthy, dirty mixture that makes me stink.
It dries so quickly hard, and sticks to shell and skin
Spoiling any chance of another weeks love-in
The ground’s so hard and rasping dry
That sliding makes me cry
The stinging grit is needle sharp
I inch along, I never dart.
The gardens dry, the plants won’t grow
But I’d hate to see it go.
The latest news makes me quite sick
I hear they want to cover it with brick