To a Caterpillar

Oh hairy, striped, hungry worm; It's your business your about. By fall you'll be a fluttering moth, Once you've turned inside out. Until then sit and rest awhile, Upon that shady bush. Your time on earth is brief you know: So what's your great, big rush? Oh striped, sleek, prolific worm; Some folks dislike you so. Revulsion's only kept at bay, In the season of the snow. You'll start to show your hairy self, Just past the month of May. And fascinate us for a spell, While rippling on your way. The summer months are filled with crunch, As you eat your way toward fall. Most leaves upon the trees have holes, Their proof you've come to call. Late fall draws near; bugs disappear, And with them . . so goes you. But come the spring your kids appear, As sure as winter's flu.