He then sees a slimy snail behind a shrub – it’s enormous.
He calls out “What a snack it’ll be!” as he prepares the fire
on which he’ll cook the snail. The flames of the fire gnaw
and crack while the snail looks on and on. He is trying
to think of a word that rhymes with “snail.” He finds one.
“Grimail, Grimail!” he shouts. I ask him what it means
because I have never heard such a word.
“Ha ha, you don’t know? So you are the idiot, not I!
Ha ha, you don’t know what they called friends
of the prominent writer, Grimm?” He then throws
himself on the snail - this one was as big as a boar –
and throws it against a hard rock until his spirit expires.
Poor snail! It seems like so short a time ago
since I saw him last, chewing that bitter grass,
grazing amongst the bees on a nearby hill.