O, little worm, you need not slip
Into your hole with such a skip;
Drawing the gravel as you glide
Over your smooth and slimy side.
I'm not a crow, poor worm, not I,
Peeping about your holes to spy,
And carry you with me in the 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 one of those, I'm sure,
Who care not what poor worms endure,
But trample on them as they lie,
Rather than take a step awry;
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, though you do not cry,
That you may feel as much as I,
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.
Oh, no, I only look about,
To see you wriggling in and out,
And drawing up your slimy rings,
Instead of feet like other things;
So, little worm, you need not slip
Into your hole with such a skip.
Written by Ann Taylor.
Thanks and Acknowledgements
Thanks to Monique Palomares for the illustration!