Consider how the lowly snail
Each night will always make a trail,
A shiny one, so he can mark,
The path he slithers in the dark.
The tiny mollusk has to put
Soft, slimy stuff beneath his foot
For traction, as he glides about,
A habit he can't do without.
He dresses in a sturdy shell,
That doubles as his home as well;
It shields him from the wind and rain,
An evolutionary gain.
He wishes he had less appeal,
Some keenly eat him at a meal.
For them, he's prized as gourmet food,
A way of thinking he finds crude.