Byron the Earthworm

An earthworm's home you wouldn't like It's cold and damp and full of night Still, It's where I am and can only be, When I scribble and wiggle hope you see, How hard to write immortal poetry, While watching out for greedy birdies, When rains wash me along the gutters, Helplessly drowning, my heart flutters, Suddenly over the gutter crawl, And burrow into earth under garden wall, In darkness may live, but full of light, Fearing rain, but still scribble in delight, In humility offer these poetic scribbles, Penned with few words and lots of wiggles.