A Worms Christmas Past
It was the night before Christmas,
And all the worms were fasting,
Making room for all the Christmas leftovers,
From tables oversupplied,
By humans with eyes bigger than stomachs,
And Credit cards well over their limits.
It was the time for young worms to dream,
And adult worms to hope for no change to the menu,
Or last-minute venue shift.
Oh what a month of feasting the worms did have,
In patches of gardens,
Full of freshly dug in treats,
Just right for worms with no teeth.
Some humans even prepared compost bins,
And placed the lucky worms inside,
To save them time.
Alas that was then,
Now the worms that can wriggle out from underneath the concrete,
Find nothing dug in,
And few compost bins.
With plastic bags to keep the worms from their feast,
And flies, stray cats and dogs,
The replacement waste contractors,
Are at the disposal of Humans.
Now all that is left for the worms are a few dead birds,
And the occasional rat,
As nothing that is dug in, is without a plastic coating.
It should not come as any surprise,
If a human could hear a worm discussing Christmas,
That the word HUMBUG would be the loudest,
As they migrate to the nearest human graveyard,
And hope for someone to drop in for Christmas.
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