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A picky snail’s

Left tricky tales

In sticky trails,

Like marks in chalk

Scrawled on the walk;

Eyes on a stalk

Alone were meant

To trace the scent

Of where she went—

The bird who’d crack

His shell and snack

Sees just a track.

Here the lawn
Is weekly
Grown and mown;

Hear at dawn
It weakly
Groan and moan.

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