Gastropod guilt

Lorraine working from home. I had time to work on some poetry, struggling with a poem I've never quite got right for part of a Telltale sampler, but sent it to Robin who saw the flaw right away, and the poem is now greatly improved. Lorraine and I had lunch in the sun in our back garden, thankfully no longer haunted by the smells of rotting snail flesh.

A couple of weeks ago, momentarily infuriated by the snails and slugs eating all our beans, plums and so on I prepared a deadly bucket of salty water, which I used to murder gastropods using my superior speed and intellect. When I went out into the garden yesterday I was struck by an unusually penetrating smell, which I traced to the ghastly bucket. I poured the stinking water down the drain, which I had to fill with bleach afterwards to make it slightly more acceptable, and then what to do with the corpses?

I tipped them, in a rattle of shells, over the low wall at the back of the wildly overgrown and unused garden of the unseen neighbour. A deep pungent smell arose from them, and I slunk away. Luckily the smell had abated by this lunchtime, but I am never killing snails again and I feel like my karma has taken a pounding because of it.