Worm gazed out at a wide, wide road

In the hot, hot heat of the sun.

“If only I were the hoppy toad

Or the happy bunny-bun!

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How I yearn to cross this road so wide!

Though I dread my doom will be flat, or fried,

How can I know until I’ve tried?”

Thought the worm that fateful day,

And he started on his way.

 

A ditty of worm, the wormy worm worm,

Who dreams of softer soil on a dim and distant berm.

His head looks like a finger and his tail looks like a thumb,

And every inch the rest of him is tummy, tum, tum.

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So he scaled the curb for parts unknown,

Not a thought of his return,

And the scalding pitch burned him to the bone

(If he’d had a bone to burn).

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How he squinched and stretched, how he stretched and squinched,

Inching inchly forward, inch by inch.

“Well, no one said this would be a cinch,”

Thought the worm as he neared that ground,

Traffic pounding all around.

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A ditty of worm, the wormy worm worm,

Who dodges dire dangers for a terrifying term!

His head looks like a finger and his tail looks like a thumb,

As he threads through throngs of thunder

     on his tummy, tum, tum.

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Then he felt he was flying through mountains of air

Toward a brown and enormous eye,

And he feared that his life would end then and end there,

When a voice boomed out of the sky,

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Saying, “Poor little worm; I admire your pluck!

But you’re sure to be struck by a car or a truck,

So I’ll be your savior, your ship of good luck!”

And by a huge hand he was laid

Off the road, in the soil, in the shade.

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A ditty of worm, the wormy worm worm,

Who dreamt of softer soil on a dim and distant berm,

Whose tail looked like a finger and whose head looked like a thumb,

And who’d been sent, with best intent,

Back the way he’d come…

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Oh, pity the worm, the wormy worm worm,

Who still dreams of softer soil on a dim and distant berm,

Whose tail and head, it must be said, look very much the same,

And who now lies stuck in the mud and muck

Right back from where he came.

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