adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, May 19, 2016

The Little Worm, a poem

The Little Worm

She once enjoyed reading Keats and Shelley,
now eight to be fed, a ninth in her belly;
she looks at her books and blames her woes
on the little worm who blew his nose.

Oh, he had such ways, he had such charm,
and earnestly promised to do her no harm;
all I shall do is pluck the rose,
said that little worm who blew his nose.

Perhaps he wasn’t the handsome sort —
rather thick, indeed, rather short —
something possessed her and so she chose
the little worm who blew his nose.

She may recall, when feeling mellow,
at least he was an upright fellow,
but not much else good, time bestows
on that little worm who blew his nose.

There’s hardly room left for regrets,
one gives her best and here’s what she gets,
a lifetime tending the crop he sows,
that little worm who blew his nose.

Who might remember the words that were said,
the books on the shelves, never more read?
All of the poetry was changed to prose
by the little worm who blew his nose.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

the daily doggerel  

Addendum, next day: It is quite possible that will pop up eventually as one of the humorous (sort of) songs that appear in my fantasy novels.

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