The Snails Lament

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