Thursday, March 5, 2009

Inchworm Melody

The pampered rocks, without a sound
Did whisper neath our feet
Did us industrially bound
Invent what wasn't meet

I did this limerick in time
When all the things were new
And now the song just doesn't rhyme
Now tells me what to do.

Now never did this idea rise
When once our bore was done
So keep those stockings from the flies
And dry them in the sun.

And though those inchworms didn't know
The workings of their trade
They, temporary, cease to grow
Just as they are remade.

So if you're sure you're modernized
And have no other flaws
Good luck to you in all your lies
And may you find your cause.

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