The worm lost it’s wriggle, he didn’t know where.
Maybe inside an apple or even a pear.
The last time he’d had it was yesterday noon.
He’d be in real trouble if he didn’t find it soon.
With daylight approaching and birds looking round
For their breakfast, he needed to be underground.
For now he was safe, or as safe as could be,
But he must lie quite still or else they would see,
This fat juicy worm, (for he’d put on some weight.)
So he really must hide, before it was too late.
He tried to remember, what he did yesterday,
And the reason his wriggle had gone right away.
The last place he’d been, was inside a plum
When it fell off the bush, now he really felt glum.
There was the plum he could see it quite clear.
But was it too far away? that was his fear.
He rolled over and over and after an hour,
He got close to the plum, though it took all his power.
He lay there and rested, then looked all around
To see if his wriggle was there on the ground.
Next he looked up and then gave a shout.
The end of his wriggle was just poking out,
Of a hole in the plum, he could see it quite plain,
But how could he get it back to him again?
Just then a slight breeze gently turned the plum round,
And his wriggle fell out right there on the ground.
“I’ll soon put that back on,” said the worm with delight,
“Then I’ll wriggle myself down a hole out of sight.”
David H Worsdale
© October 2008