Through Wigan runs a great divide:
The slugs down on the Southern side
Are subject (as indeed are we)
To unrequited misery
If they can't find a loving mate.
In this pathetic, lonely state
The slug is low in self-esteem
And takes the single life to mean
It has no charm, no winning grace
No wit, charisma, no real place
Within another's heart. And yet
Above that latitude, slugs get
Erotic satisfaction, joy.
A slug is born both girl and boy:
So sturdy Northern common sense
Finds in self-love, true recompense.
It reasons thus: hermaphrodites
Need never suffer from the blights
Of jealousy, rejection, scorn.
It's foolish to remain lovelorn:
There's someone here who thinks I'm great,
Who will, always, reciprocate
My passion. Life will be complete
If only we can make ends meet.
This poetic perception (so mellifluously expressed in our opinion) has given its author cause for soul searching as the inspiration of the Muse led to approval of slug sexuality in all its forms whereas she had been trying to moderate it. Our heroine will ponder further.