I Want To Be Bald*
Some want to be the loyal dog with eyes of strong devotion
some want to be the cat, with sly feline seduction.
Some say they like the eagle, as it with piercing eyes
spies and traps the field mouse, with loud victorious cries.
Some say they want to be a monkey full of jokes and fun
some want to be a sloth asleep in coat of comfy dun
But I, who am a lady, and as everyone as some
I want to be a little worm a-snuggled in a lump.
I think the worm is humble, and he's much overlooked.
He crawls along the ground all day with faeces as his food.
He makes the soil good soil for the crops and flowers to grow,
his arms are nonexistent but their extent I cannot show.
He has no hair, he's proudly bald and cares not for his face
And yet his beauty shines through in his slender quiet grace.
His silence, and his diligence, and contentment with his lot
Are qualities which were often over many decades fought.
He wriggles funnily sometimes, he's not devoid of humour
And cares naught for the "early bird" sort of terrifying rumour
He loves his gentle life which each day may bring to end
And lives it, giving all, treating all as welcome friend.
I want to be the humble worm, who trodden on w'out mercy
Makes no protest or upcry but lies broken on the ground.
I want to be like him, who despised and lowly treated
Immobolised and helpless still clings on without a sound.
O lovely worm, as you lie there, do you in quiet faith know
That someday for your cursed life more lives will breathe and grow
O fragment of a bruised existence do you ever feel the pain
of the crushing, of the suffering, that brings to life again?
My balding friend, I think he knows, that just an hour later
His two split halves will walk away, life not one whit abated.
He cannot grin, he has no eyes, he crawls away again.
And when he comes of length must he another time face pain.
But I know, like the placid worm, that I am helping in the garden
Of thorny soils, of rocky soils, I am the unseen warden
And though the way to multiply is sorrowful and long
I must content and faithful be to work among the pong.
*crap
some want to be the cat, with sly feline seduction.
Some say they like the eagle, as it with piercing eyes
spies and traps the field mouse, with loud victorious cries.
Some say they want to be a monkey full of jokes and fun
some want to be a sloth asleep in coat of comfy dun
But I, who am a lady, and as everyone as some
I want to be a little worm a-snuggled in a lump.
I think the worm is humble, and he's much overlooked.
He crawls along the ground all day with faeces as his food.
He makes the soil good soil for the crops and flowers to grow,
his arms are nonexistent but their extent I cannot show.
He has no hair, he's proudly bald and cares not for his face
And yet his beauty shines through in his slender quiet grace.
His silence, and his diligence, and contentment with his lot
Are qualities which were often over many decades fought.
He wriggles funnily sometimes, he's not devoid of humour
And cares naught for the "early bird" sort of terrifying rumour
He loves his gentle life which each day may bring to end
And lives it, giving all, treating all as welcome friend.
I want to be the humble worm, who trodden on w'out mercy
Makes no protest or upcry but lies broken on the ground.
I want to be like him, who despised and lowly treated
Immobolised and helpless still clings on without a sound.
O lovely worm, as you lie there, do you in quiet faith know
That someday for your cursed life more lives will breathe and grow
O fragment of a bruised existence do you ever feel the pain
of the crushing, of the suffering, that brings to life again?
My balding friend, I think he knows, that just an hour later
His two split halves will walk away, life not one whit abated.
He cannot grin, he has no eyes, he crawls away again.
And when he comes of length must he another time face pain.
But I know, like the placid worm, that I am helping in the garden
Of thorny soils, of rocky soils, I am the unseen warden
And though the way to multiply is sorrowful and long
I must content and faithful be to work among the pong.
*crap
1 Comments:
That's a beautiful poem, whose it by?
Worms are wonderful things, we always try to encourage them in the garden, making all our nice compost. Though I'm always scared of harming them, they have an alarming tendency to get near your spade whilst digging!
Personally, I want to be a tree - more my pace. ;)
By
Orbling, at 2:29 am
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