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Poem

The gravedigger’s spade shall dig and not waver
Theres gossip abroad and it’s gossip to savour
Four dozen worms that were once many more
Awaited the man they’d encountered before

It wasn’t just blackbirds that liked a good worm
This man’s midnight footsteps would make them all squirm
It wasn’t allowed but the soil was just right
So he would sneak in under cover of night

His quarry he’d seek, looking over his shoulder
With each spade he shoved he grew just slightly bolder
The worms had lost cousins and uncles and aunts
And mothers and fathers who stood little chance

The hole is now dug and the day turns to night
The worms sit and wait… could the gossip be right?
The morning’s approach hails a day that is new
And footsteps pound rhythms that none of them knew

But gossip in wormville takes prisoners few
“Let’s just sit and wait, that’s the best thing to do.”
And then there’s a coffin, and all the worms yearned
For a taste of the man who refused to be burned

No cremation for him for he must pay his debt
His gift upon death which in life he had set
His gravestone would read, “I’ve caught so many fish,
On worms I dug here… now I’m their tasty dish,”

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