Trotted past a lonesome snail,
"Whither thou?" the weasel asked
"To Rome, Modesto or Damascus?"
"I keep an atlas in my shell,"
The snail replied after a spell
"And every place I roam and wander,
Is annotated 'just up yonder.'"
"And does it tell, by signs or words,
The whereabouts of nesting birds?"
"No, let me make the caption clear
Each page announces 'leaves be here'."
"What waste of good cartography
To omit the sites that interest me!"
"My map of foliage, I find fine,
And copied once upon a vine."
The weasel darted on ahead,
To see where the forest trail led
While the snail, of his terrain assured,
Sauntered right up to a waiting bird.
ROADMAP, n. The landscape of the lost.