O, Meal Worm

A meal worm eats me like a gourd of flesh, this slimy beast I dread; two weeks or more until my heart's (that once was young and fresh) a hole that brims with the plaque of its gore. Soft-bodied, legless, and writhing, this meal worm, like yeast that leavens a raw loaf of baked bread, or phage that necrotizes like a germ, consumes its host until it's thoroughly fed. Elongated and portly, like a porcine (a fat creature and ravenous parasite!) with the over-sized appetite of a swine, you threaten me with a sick, terminal blight. But if I were the brave one, O meal worm, I'd make a meal of you and watch you squirm!