The Worm

No, little worm, you need not slip Into your hole, with such a skip; Drawing the gravel as you glide On to your smooth and slimy side. I'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, Peeping about your holes to spy, And fly away with you in air, To give my young ones each a share. No, and I'm not a rolling-stone, Creaking along with hollow groan;

Nor am I of the naughty crew, Who don't care what poor worms go through, But trample on them as they lie, Rather than pass them gently by; Or keep them dangling on a hook, Choked in a dismal pond or brook, Till some poor fish comes swimming past, And finishes their pain at last.

For my part, I could never bear Your tender flesh to hack and tear, Forgetting that poor worms endure As much as I should, to be sure, If any giant should come and jump On to my back, and kill me plump, Or run my heart through with a scythe, And think it fun to see me writhe!

O no, I'm only looking about, To see you wriggle in and out, And drawing together your slimy rings, Instead of feet, like other things: So, little worm, don't slide and slip Into your hole, with such a skip.