Do you want to be like the inchworm? We have a rather glum song here, as befits the subject.
The inchworm’s life is mild and meek;
His prospects look a little bleak.
All day he creeps, and creeps, and creeps,
And creeps, and creeps, and then he sleeps.
When morning comes, he wakes and eats
A bit of leaf, and then excretes;
And then he creeps again, because
That’s all he knows and all he does.
And he continues in this dim
Routine, till someone steps on him,
Or till some peckish thrush or finch
Decides to make a lunch of inch.
Poor inchworm! When he is no more,
He’s not much different than before.
