there never seemed to be a need
to rush around,
he was no chicken
and preferred a slimy snail
much to a rabbit
for himself,
though once he hitched
himself
to her, who claimed
that cogs must whirr
and turn
until they generate some heat,
he knew he’d lost the battle,
and that war was in his cards.
Yet on he went,
each day a fresh new deck
was stacked,
against his wishes
and in great defiance
of his greater needs.
So, what to do,
the question took eternity to grow,
until its nature was revealed
to him,
and answers rolled
like coloured marbles
on a polished floor.
Of course!
They’d have a race,
start at the city hall
and finish at God’s Acres
at the edge of town.
The scepter would belong,
without a doubt,
and no objections raised,
and none allowed
to he who’d stand,
there, at the finish line.
The rabbit ran,
flew past the crowd,
was cheered by all
and reached the gate
where he collapsed
next to the chapel door.
And died.
Today,
all folks inside the town
and through the lands
where matches are,
by humans made in haste,
his fame is known to all,
and someone named him,
for his cleverness Snail Male.