He
He wriggled and squirmed,
Like a demented worm.
Fidgeted and fumbled,
Grimaced and grumbled,
He jiggled and jived,
Contorted and writhed,
Kept saying Arrr,
Like a wasp in a jar.
He was out of control,
This poor wretched soul,
As he reached fever pitch,
He found the itch,
Which he scratched until,
His body stayed still.
Copyright © Shirley Hawkins | Year Posted 2021
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