Try as he would, try as he might,
Cedric could not get his shell spiral right.

His friends in the garden could spiral with ease,
Swirling their shells with great expertise.

For weeks he would spy, longing to learn,
Then sneak out to try when his friends had adjourned.

Alone he would fiddle, shaping with angst,
Until deep down his middle a sorry heart sank.

For what was the use, he knew from the start,
Once his hands were turned loose all plans fell apart.

Still upward he'd twirl before curling back down,
With his shell staying straight and nowhere near round.

Then, "Poor Cedric," they sighed, hidden nearby,
Those friends watching over another fine try.

Yet not one snail among them came forward to tell,
For what fun to see that slug take a stick for a shell.

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