|
I used to bring home
wiggly worms,
But how they made my mother squirm,
For in the pockets of my pants,
They lived with several little ants.
The ants were cute
as they could be,
Although my mother disagreed,
But it's the worms that she despised,
'Cause they would catch her by surprise.
For every night when
I came home,
From all the places I would roam,
I'd bring my treasures of the day,
Inside my pockets they would stay.
But then my mother
washed my pants,
Complete with worms and little ants,
And in my pockets she would reach,
And I would hear my mother screech.
She took the pockets
off my pants,
I have no place to put my ants,
No place to keep my wiggly worms,
The ones that make my mother squirm.
My mother sewed my
pockets shut,
And didn't tell me why or what,
But I am sure that I know why,
And it's enough to make me cry.
These days my worms
stay in the ground,
And I must leave them where they're found,
Unless I hide just one or two,
And let her find them in my shoe.
by
David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
|
