Monday, 3 November 2014


Worms and creepy things abound
In my garden, crawling round;
And, when the ground is sodden through,
Up they come for all to view.

Turn a stone and they surprise us
In their many shapes and sizes.
Healthy brown worms, bright with slime,
These I like, but have no time

For those sickly greens or yellows,
Or those lively, wiry, rusty fellows
Of many feet, who eat my tubers,
Occasioning in me Most Violent Humours;

For, when you splice them with your spade,
Both halves live that you have made,
And wriggle off into the clay
To gorge again another day

Upon whatever you have sown.
And you wonder why your flower has grown
So slow, and why its blooms
Are anaemic, sickly things, till soon

You dig it up, and then you see
Six hundred creatures wriggle free.
Sometimes, when you sit at table
To eat a feed, if you are able,

Of lettuce and other garden greens,
You think you've of a sudden seen
Something stir upon your plate.
You look again to see a great,

Big, slimy, yellow snail
Which even your mum's wily washing failed
To dislodge from the leaf
You nearly had between your teeth.

Green worms, grey worms, red worms, blue,
How I hate the lot of you.
If I find you in my way,
I'll make a mash of you for play.

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