Worms

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.