The Snail

 'The Snail'

See the sick and wounded snail,
   Sick in mind and body both,
   Travelling through the undergrowth
Or asparagus and kale,
Exiled from the herd (or horde)
Where he once was overlord.

See him as his eyeballs glaze;
   Nasty sorts of flies and things,
   Such as every poet brings
Into poems nowadays,
Buzz about the eyes and tail
Of this old unhappy snail.

Ants arise to greet the dawn,
   Beetles burnish up their mail,
   But the old unhappy snail
Creeps towards the croquet lawn,
Where the loathly blackbird jumps,
Looking out for slithery lumps.

He recalls the moment when
   Long ago, a thing uncouth,
   He arrived without a tooth,
Youngest of a batch of ten.
(Snails recall their infancy
For more brightly than do we.)

How he gambolled round about,
   Always at his mother’s side
   Filled with lustihood and pride,
Feeding upon Brussels-spout,
Turnip-tops and cauliflower.
(Pity him in his lone-hour!)

Oft in those remembered morns
   With his tiny friends at play
   He would butt, and so would they,
Making trial of his horns,
Butt until he felt unwell
And retired to his shell.

Till at last his hour occurred;
   Fiercely then, and roaring loud,
   He attacked the leader proud,
Chieftain of the hornéd herd,
Whilst the lady snails looked on,
Smiling at their paragon.

Foaming at the lips with slime,
   Each the hated foe assails
   (Battles between rival snails
Occupy no end of time);
Butting hard but butting slow,
These went on two weeks or so.

See him victor at the last;
   See the victim creep away,
   Tameless even in decay,
From the treacherous herd outcast,
Whilst the hero of our plot
Stands the head-snail of the lot.

Stands resplendent in his pride
   Waving to and fro his horns;
   Not a beetle but he scorns,
Not an earthworm far and wide
But he tosses from his path,
Bellowing in berserk wrath.

How he altered! Now he’s been
   Broken like the one before;
   All his face is smeared with gore;
Showing undisguised chagrin
He is crawling, as I said,
Through the vegetable bed.

Soon to meet the blackbird grim
   Perching on the fateful tree,
   While the last snail (Number Three),
Having now defeated him,
Lords it, till in turn he fails,  
And a fourth——
                       Oh! —— these snails!

Evoe [E.V. Knox], Parodies Regained (London: Methuen , 1921), pp.  95-98.

This edition contains some fun illustrations by George Morrow. Originally published for Punch magazine.