if you find a couple of dozen snails
crawling around your kitchen, here's the best way to care
it was a quiet cafe in orleans, france
where we held our midnight rendezvous,
conspiring pour la resistance
it seemed like something woody allen would do,
talking politics, ethics, animal rights
one fateful night long ago.
the mood like the food we kept it light
till someone ordered escargot.
how sad for the snails, i cried woefully
shedding tears on my brioche.
to have given up their lives needlessly
for the bourgeoisie, how gauche
to my friends, i cried you and your dialectic.
save the dolphins.
save the ozone.
save the whale...
there is a factory i know where they are farming escargot.
we must save our friend the snail.
we planned the mission with the utmost precision,
spied the factory from across the boulevard.
the alarm was taken care of by pierre the electrician,
while i seduced- i mean, subdued- the guard.
need i tell you, our timing was crucial
not to be caught at the scene of the crime.
our problem, so existential:
the snail's perception of time.
for as we overturned the vats that held the captives
and we shouted run away! you are free!
i thought the snails were drugged the way they acted.
they moved so sluggishly.
how do you convey the danger?
how do you let them know?
we tried to no avail to liberate the snail,
but the escar wouldn't go