Samuel the Suicidal Snail
was always sickly, wan and pale.
His friends were few, and they were bored,
(it didn’t help that Samuel snored).

“Let’s tell Sam standing in the road
is sure to make his head explode!”
Sam heard the news without delight,
and murmured moodily, “Oh, alright.”

Along the hot, black, sticky tar,
grumbling with rumblings from afar,
Sam slithered slowly, sadly, stopped.

A crunching sound: his shell had popped.
A single squelch and Sam expired.
A second squish: Sam was retyred.