Always dressed, without fail, in his best, it is the Snail.
Lacking gender, call it He - Hermaphrodite variety! The snails are what they need to be, happy in equality. At the headline of society, the subject of great enmity - at the envy of the lower bug, the Snail does not mention the Slug.
Ever at home to friendly callers - in his castle dome, that grows yet taller - lives the gentleman with long, stalked eyes, his expression of polite surprise.
A pacifist he, the subject of this rhyme - he'd never kill, nor conceal the crime. Indeed, he can't - he leaves a trail - evidence leading to the Snail.
At rest, or when feeding, the best place to dwell, playing chess or when reading, he's blessed with his shell. Starting pale and soft as flesh, a slender veil, delicate mesh - with age we see the touch of karma, a harmless beast is given armour.
Indeed, he could hardly be calmer - a herbivore - of leaves a farmer. Too calm, one might say to the point of harm - for than the snail, no-one is slower... of particular consequence, in the path of a mower.
Prudent, readily prepared - knowing in the long-run, none are spared, this gentleman, in lacking bones - leaves a grander (by far!) gravestone.
... excepting that most tragic end, being brittle/lacking bend - of all, the worst, I'm sure you feel - is to burst beneath your heel. What a way, in what a world.. Innocent, in spiral curled, only to be crushed to mince, the sound alone will make you wince. Ground to liquid mixed with powder, the noble Snail: has become chowder.
So please, human - watch the ground, for these creatures that astound, mind your feet, for the shell-bound, genderless elite - have a care, give right of way, remain aware at night or during day..
For with eyes upon prehensile stalks, looking out for those who walk, the snails are watching - and while so slowly they may cruise, those who see you stamp - will not forget your shoes...