slimy poo

Call Me Your Slimy-Poo
I live alone beneath a pile of dirt,
And mulch, dead leaves, and a large flowerpot,
(Don’t ask me why a pot’s there; I know not
why; it seems odd to me) And yet I hurt
For though I’m rich and an accomplished flirt
As well, as all agree, I’m rather hot,
I visit public garden bars a lot,
And, to gain love, all my charm I exert
And yet no fellow slug returns my love,
I cannot share my wealth of mulch and stone,
I’m lonely and despite all I can do
Despite my prayers to the Great Slug above,
No one loves me; I’m stuck here all alone.
No lady slug calls me her slimy-poo.

There was another poem I once wrote that I thought about posting, to keep with the theme, but I could not find a copy. I think this was probably fortunate. ‘Slimy-poo’ is likely a disturbing enough foray into my psyche. In any case, the other wasn’t entirely a love-poem: it started out that way, not because I was in love with anyone, of course, but just in the tradition of a time-honoured subject, but it ended up being more about fish--it rhymed with ‘wish’ and I could think of little to say about this imaginary person...and then I was trying to be deep, I think, so I don’t really know what the end of it means...I believe I was being metaphorical, attempting to incorporate this fish into some sort of deep and spiritual aquatic imagery, but it didn’t work. It’s not like I expected it to; I mean, fish. Really.
I think I was probably hungry.
And before you ask: no, I hadn’t anything better to do.
We all have our guilty pleasures. Spewing drivel is mine.