Mom what are these snails,
with blood and sweat trails?
lumbering mountians, hauling heavy shells,
jumping in beer--killing themselves,
Why do they still patrol
the garden flag poles,
writhing in pain,
salt in flesh--burning holes,
Mother, the neighbors have no flag,
but they have a saltshaker to wave?
crushed shell--only way they listen to them,
rejoicing--at salted skin--wetly glistening.

But I feel I must do the same,
Well before the recruiter came,
I know what he sells,
The salty brimstone of hell,
But these Blood Sweat Snails in the dirt,
Jumping on grenades,
Absorbing brimstone bursts.
Truly are the salt of the Earth.