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He goes but slowly but he goeth sure.
His shelly hat nobody doth he doff to.
He leaveth yucky gubbins on the floor
So we can see where he hath buggered off to.
He keeps his innards in a trinket box
As fine as any on a dressing table.
He rolls his eyes up like a pair of socks
And squirts them out again when he is able
To do so without being put upon
By interfering interested parties.
He lives in fear of being trodden on
Or written on by snooty arty-farties.
He eats the food that Nature put for him.
He walks upon his stomach, which is odd,
But Nature made it like a foot for him
And that is why he’s called a gastropod.