Willy the worm,
Who wriggles and squirms,
In his damp den of darkness,
Segmented and slim,
Dines on dirt he tunnels within.

On his diet of dirt,
Dinning from dusk 'till dawn,
He consumes our rubbish to castings,
And aerates our lawns.

He breaks up the soil,
In constant munching toil,
Guiding moisture to roots,
And does it all,
Without gloves, tools or boots.

Willy's been all through your garden,
And under your house,
Meandering with millions,
Quieter than a mouse.

We give ourselves credit,
For our gardening tasks,
Though the credit is due Willy,
Where even a featureless blind worm,
Can tell his head from his aft.

Willy the gardener supreme,
His merits and tunnels often unseen.
Dirt farmer and miner combined,
The toughest terrain his daily grind.

So spare a thought for Willy today,
And help a humble worm,
On its cute wriggling way.

Nigel L. Spark
11/11/2000

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