Volume 159 — THE LATE WORM

Oh ye whose hearts were rent with pain A few short weeks ago, Is it unkind to harp again Upon that tale of woe? You know the tale—in Punch, I mean— Pathetic every word; Three wormlets fought to stand between Pa and the Early Bird. You sorrowed for their non-success (By use of triple strength They saved their father’s life—ah yes— But not his total length). You thought, of course—I know you did— That Father left his hole, A briskly virtuous annelid, To take an early stroll. Well, now just go and read a book Called Vegetable Mould And Earthworms (Darwin); if you look You’ll find that you’ve been sold. It’s not my own, it’s Darwin’s firm Authority I cite: There never is an early worm; Pa had been out all night. He swaggered forth at eventide And stayed till dawn next day; For I will not attempt to hide That worms behave that way. So pious folk like you and me Should not be filled with woe At thought of Father’s tragedy; His morals were so low.