The Snail (Woolf)


Slowly to the lighthouse she went,
yet she never really arrived,
like a sea snail so wholly spent
in the sun, she never survived,
oozing over pebbles of thought
and undulating like the waves,
wandering slowly while she sought
other shells, like clefs on the staves
of a song without any words,
yet awash with colors and sound
while down swooped the shrieking seabirds
to feast on thoughts she thought profound.
Nought remains of the languid snail
tossed to and fro along the beach
except her opalescent shell
tumbling within the frothy reach.



A Yorkie so badly wall-eyed
she only sees side to side,
blind to her own black nose
and confused as she goes
bouncing from wall to wall,
each eye a billiard ball
rolling, lolling, bowling
even as she goes strolling—
I am not at all joking:
she is but a broke thing.
No depth perception here
ear to nose to ear—
when looking right at you
you’ll be just out of view:
How does she eat when
she dips her snout in
and misses the whole bowl
with her drooling food-hole?
And that funny overbite!
It just doesn’t look right—
like a bent can opener that
has been mixed with a rat.
Barking at empty shoes
to pick a fight she will lose
and falling off the couch
when too excited (ouch)
and bopping her hairy head
so much she should be dead;
too scared to be alone outside
or she will whine and hide
from wind and sky and rain
or paw at the windowpane.
Look at her snaggletooth gap!
Hear her high-pitched yap?
Beware her wall-eyed stare
as she bounces here and there.
Not quite a dog, nor a rat,
but something of a brat
roughhousing with her teeth
with your fingers— good grief!
Oh, silly little Remy-roo!
As blind as a bat, or Mr Magoo!