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Snails are snarling and sneaking around.
Escargot I mention, and they can no longer be found.
I get out the pot and I clang it on the stove.
An enormous one just under my grimy refrigerator dove.

Come on out here, and let us get a glimpse of you, I say.
They are trembling so hard; my curtains begin to fray.
What kind of a kitchen is this to help food hide out?
I am irritated now. I give a whistle and a loud shout.

Snails are whispering, hoping I will forget how tasty they are.
I decorate a hat with them and put one on hubby’s cigar.
I make pets of them and pretend they will not be flounced or beat.
But eventually, of course, we will get to eat them all sweet.

For now, they are fooled, and they begin wearing designer clothes.
They parade past the mirror, carrying my dad’s garden hose.
How could my food get any prettier? They simply look great!
I say to myself, as I ready my escargot plate.

Written 5-2-22
Contest: A Merger with Food Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg

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