A simple invertebrate is he
who on his woodland branch he parks
no hands to hold a cup of tea
no arms to raise, no humor sparks
No wings have you that lift and glide
no mane, no cloven feet, no snout
yet linked to Arion, your pride,
a foil for your meager route
Unlike the snail who hefts his home
unlike an ant who hauls much freight
your burden light you rarely roam
remaining where your meal awaits
Perhaps you know the age of trees
or how you found your rotting stick
your silence mocks the windblown leaves
whose vibrant voice commands and whips
You’ve donned your subtle pinstripe coat
the tux above, white shirt for feet
but there’s no fans to hear you quote
your metered dithyrambic beat
So raise your mug to those who wait
to toast a creature’s simple tale
this Arion Hortensis lives his fate
a slug on nature’s humblest scale.
