One of a book of poems I wrote for my grandson Oliver. This features Philip, a cuddly inchworm.
Philip is an inchworm, he has neither legs nor feet, He also has no arms or hands like others on his street. Phil isn’t good at football, and he can’t run round and round. His hand eye coordination’s missing something quite profound. He’d like to play a tennis match but can’t for some strange reason, Golf is just beyond his grasp and will never be in season. Phil can't do cartwheels, jump, or clap, and rugby's not his forte, But he's colored like a rainbow, so, who cares if he's not sporty?
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