Through the tangle, softly gliding,
Comes a long, long tummy, sliding—
Just a belly, nothing more,
Except the eyes that come before,
And a mouth so wide and hollow,
No one knows what it might swallow.
Crickets? Weevils? Worms or slugs?
Juicy, slurpy spittlebugs?
Bouncing frogs, all slick and fat?
Garden fresh. You can’t beat that!
How about some fuzzy mice?
Crunchy snails are always nice. . . .
Sliding softly, here and gone,
A belly with a head stuck on.

By Kurt Cyrus  

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