A sticky line behind the snail.
Behind the jet a vapor trail.
No sign of the passing whale,
Just the waving of his tail.
Some grits remain inside the bowl.
A mound arisen by the mole.
A gooey mess on the car windshield,
None saw it done behind the wheel.
But that snail does little know,
That he has not hand nor toe.
And that licking tongue of cat,
Knows not where it’s been at!
What’s been left over after we pass through,
Cannot give true account of you.