Ode to a Worm

It might make some people squirm

to see the tiny, sightless worm,

who beneath the ground in dead leaves toils

to make the good seed growing soils.

The worm works hard to decompose

a coffin’s wood and dead man’s clothes.

Making meals of death and waste,

the noble worm creates some space.

Contaminating soil should be a sin

because the blessed worm breathes through its skin.

Without the worm, where would we be?

Without the apple, with out the trees.

So praises I raise to this wiggle wonder,

today and tomorrow when six feet under.

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