American Wriggle
Rand Paul opens
a new can of worms.
The worms wriggle
around in the can,
unaware they’re about
to become fish-bait.
“That’s it! ” he tells them,
“I approve of wriggle!
Fish approve of wriggle.
Everybody approves wriggle.
It’s The American Way! ”
Tea Partiers cheer, wriggling
like blind American worms.
(24 MAY 10, Santa Clara CA)
poem by Bill Costley
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Related quotes
Ooby Doby
OOBY DOOBY
Roy Orbison
Hey baby, jump over here and you do the ooby dooby
I wanna be near
Ooby dooby, ooby dooby
Ooby dooby dooby dooby
Dooby dooby do wah do wah do wah
Well ya wriggle to the left, you wriggle to the right
Do the ooby dooby with all of your might
Yell ya wriggle and ya shake, like a bit rattle snake
Ya do the ooby dooby 'till ya think her heart'll break
Well you won't be a struttin' cos now ya know
How to do the ooby dooby now baby let's go
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death
death when it is a thief
runs away with our hearts
throw hope in a freezer
we are left in a vacuum of time
in a second that would take
a whole lifetime to fill
worms wriggle away every bit
of the dreams we have had
they leave no scrap behind
our pain is laid bare like skeletons
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Reminder For All Of Us
according to the laws of evolution something that is not used
may finally be lost. It fades. It is gone. So like the fins of a fish
who migrated to the island, they slowly fall out and from there shall
grow a set of wings and claws. They become birds.And they soon
learn to fly. They dream of clouds.
Like the moss of the rocks by the shore
by the lake. They envy the worms. They dream to wriggle
and move and push their tiny bodies.Soon the acquire the gift
of motion. Soon they become worms and crawl their way up
on the leaf. They even become caterpillars. Soon they become
the new butterflies.
So it will be with us. If we do not walk, our feet will soon be forgotten.
They will become mere skin. Our feet shrink and become part of
our bottom. If we do not think and use our minds, soon the brain
becomes a stone. Hard. Brittle. Soon they become part of the river
where a passerby simply steps upon it. Upon us.
Soon we will just be the sand. And the river flows upon.
If we do not love, soon we will just become a wall, a floor,
a house whose doors will close. A place for nothing
but merely departure.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Swamp
There's a swamp at the end your bed, he said,
at the end of my bed there's a swamp.
My daddy told me so, he did
whenever I wouldn't stay in bed.
There's a swamp at the end of your bed.
The swamp at the end of my bed
is filled with icky worms,
they squirm about and wriggle.
They're horrible, slippery worms, they are
They're horrible, slippery worms.
Still, I stole my daddy's boots last night,
I stole my daddy's boots
and when the hand strikes 12 O'clock
down to the end of the bed, I'll go
to the end of the bed, to the end of the bed,
down to the very edge.
Down in the quagmire's inners
lurk monsters, big and bold,
maybe an odd old leather boot
has fallen, so I'm told.
It will be such fun to explore it,
the swamp that seeps through the floor.
My daddy thinks I'll stay in my bed,
but staying in bed is a bore, I say
staying in bed is a bore.
poem by Ruth Walters
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* * *
Why do people take the time
To twist and wriggle, just to rhyme?
poem by Paul Brookes
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Past Life?
He placed some juicy worms of rhyme
on steel hooks that dangled from poetic lines,
they wriggled and danced most playfully
with the promise of a satisfactory tea.
The hungry fish came near
quelling doubts and ignoring fear
and in an instant, with a click,
chewed that worm and bit
the dangled hook within.
The fisherman he reeled the line
and raised the rod, in time,
he drew that fish ever closer, near
to the shallow edge of fear,
where waters slow, and where that fish
would not ever choose to go.
Hoisted high with view so new
through the air that fish he flew
then grabbed, unhooked, he met the eyes
of the one that fished
upon the river bank of bliss;
the one that dangled juicy worms of rhyme
from the ends of poetic lines;
and there that fish he knew as true
that dangling worms of rhyme
sharp and penetrating hooks could hide
so when next he clicked his jaws
he would be wary of some disguise
and try to see what lies inside.
The fisherman threw him back
into the waters which sped past the bank
the fish swam on until reaching sea
and with a novel thought had he.
When this life of swimming ends
I will return, and learn to fashion lines of words
that entice with rhymes like wriggling worms
and as someone bites, Ill make them fly so high
and in that most unfamiliar state,
look them deep in their souls eye
and make them wary of disguise,
so that they may always try
to see what truly lies inside.
poem by David Taylor
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London Tube Trains (Are Like Worms!)
London Tube Trains are like Worms,
They are even shaped like worms,
They live underground like Worms do,
Eating into the heart of the capital,
Like worms eating into an apple.
poem by Rachel Porter
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Waiting For The Worms
Oooo you cannot reach me now,
Oooo no matter how you try.
Goodbye cruel world, its over.
Walk on by.
Sitting in a bunker,
Here behind my wall,
Waiting for the worms to come. ( worms to come. )
In perfect isolation,
Here behind my wall,
Waiting for the worms to come. ( worms to come. )
Waiting, to cut out the deadwood.
Waiting, to clean up the city.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Waiting, to put on a black shirt.
Waiting, to weed out the weaklings.
Waiting, to smash in their windows and kick in their doors.
Waiting, for the final solution to strengthen the strain.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Waiting, to turn on the showers and fire the ovens.
Waiting, for the queers and the coons and the reds and the jews.
Waiting, to follow the worms.
Would you like to see britannia,
Rule again, my friend?
All you have to do is follow the worms.
Would you like to send our colored cousins,
Home again, my friend?
All you need to do is follow the worms.
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Musing on mortality
Musing on mortality.
Though we all start on equal terms
Your life experience will affirm.
All finish up as food for worms.
Some will win whilst others lose
We have no choice we can’t refuse
All finish up as food for worms.
Although we strive to stay alive
By any means we can contrive.
All finish up as food for worms
Some settle for cremation
An act of desperation.
All finish up as food for worms
Although the ashes are broadcast
They mingle with the soil at last.
All finish up as food for worms
That is the way it’s meant to be.
There is no doubt eventually.
All finish up as food for worms
The only true equality
Is found within the cemetery
ALL FINISH UP AS FOOD FOR WORMS.
SUNDAY,11 DECEMBER 2011
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sonnet-Our Earthly Stay Is For Heaven
In life on earth, all problems have to end;
And when they do in God's time/way, 'tis best;
From newer problems, then we must defend;
And thus our life goes on without much rest.
Yet, half the things we worry, turn out well;
Let us then think of days ahead only;
Let not our bitter past make future hell;
Our life's struggles find solutions surely.
Yet, life on earth is one constant struggle;
We dare not lose our sanity of thought;
And learn, we must from worms to out wriggle;
From situations in which we're badly caught.
We shouldn't forget the love of God for us;
Nor Heaven's way, Abode of God- True Bliss.
poem by John Celes
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The Revised One: Murky
and you tiptoe and wriggle and sing for i am winding
you take the plunge and you search for my heart
the warmth of my floor and the comfort of my banks
the tickles of my fish, the power of my pebbles
you feel that i own you now and you want some more
wanting to stay and savor the embrace of my foams
at noon the sun comes at the height of its brightness
you realize the mistake & you stand and dress yourself
you never want to be a part of me for i have become murky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Down On Wriggle Crick
'Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat.' --Old Saw.
Mostly folks is law-abidin'
Down on Wriggle Crick--,
Seein' they's no Squire residin'
In our bailywick;
No grand juries, no suppeenies,
Ner no vested rights to pick
Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef
He's outragin' Wriggle Crick!
Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin',
Ner no suits to beat;
Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin'
Like a County-seat;
Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick,
Ner non-gittin' witness-fees;
Ner no thiefs 'at gits 'new heain's,'
By some lawyer slick as grease!
Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit
Is old Johnts Culwell--,
Keeps post-office, and right near it
Owns what's called 'The Grand Hotel--'
(Warehouse now--) buys wheat and ships it;
Gits out ties, and trades in stock,
And knows all the high-toned drummers
'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk'
Last year comes along a feller--
Sharper 'an a lance--
Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller,
And a boughten all-wool pants--,
Tinkerin of clocks and watches:
Says a trial's all he wants--
And rents out the tavern-office
Next to Uncle Johnts.
Well--. He tacked up his k'dentials,
And got down to biz--.
Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchils
Fer them old wheat-sacks o' his--.
Fixed his clock, in the post-office--
Painted fer him, clean and slick,
'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters,
'J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick.'
Any kindo' job you keered to
Resk him with, and bring,
He'd fix fer you-- jest appeared to
Turn his hand to anything--!
Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers--
Glue a cheer er chany doll--,
W'y, of all the beatin' fellers,
He Jest beat 'em all!
Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there--,
One mistake he learnt,
That was, sleepin' in his shop there--.
And one Sund'y night it burnt!
Come in one o' jest a-sweepin'
All the whole town high and dry--
And that feller, when they waked him,
Suffocatin', mighty nigh!
Johnts he drug him from the buildin',
He'pless-- 'peared to be--,
And the women and the childern
Drenchin' him with sympathy!
But I noticed Johnts helt on him
With a' extry lovin' grip,
And the men-folks gethered round him
In most warmest pardership!
That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'!
Johnt's safe was saved--,
But the lock was found sprung open,
And the inside caved.
Was no trial-- ner no jury--
Ner no jedge ner court-house-click--.
Circumstances alters cases
Down on Wriggle Crick!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Worms
Worms finer for fishing you couldn't be wishing;
I delved them dismayed from the velvety sod;
The rich loam upturning I gathered them squirming,
big, fat, gleamy earthworms, all ripe for my rod.
Thinks I, without waiting, my hook I'll be baiting,
And flip me a fish from the foam of the pool;
Then Mother beholding, came crying and scolding:
"You're late, ye young devil! Be off to the school."
So grabbing me bait-tin I dropped them fat worms in,
With globs of green turf for their comfort and cheer;
And there, clean forgotten, no doubt dead and rotten;
I left them to languish for nigh on a year.
One day to be cleaning the byre I was meaning,
When seeing that old rusty can on the shelf,
Says I: "To my thinking, them worms must be stinking:
Begorrah! I'd better find out for myself."
So I opened the tin, held my nose and looked in;
And what did I see? Why, most nothing at all.
Just darkness and dank. and . . . a something that stank,
Tucked down in a corner, a greasy grey ball.
My worms - no, not dead, but thin as a thread,
Each seemed to reproach me, protesting its worth:
So softly I took them and tenderly shook them
Back into the bosom of mothering earth.
I'm now in the City; 'tis grand, but I pity
The weariful wretches that crawl in its grime;
The dregs and the scum and the spawn of the slum,
And the poor little children that's cradled in crime.
Sure I see them in terms of my pitiful worms,
surviving despite desperation and doom,
And I wish I was God, with a smile and a nod
To set them all down in a valley of bloom,
Saying: "Let these rejoice with a wonderful voice
For mothering earth and for fathering sea,
And healing of sun, for each weariful one
Of these poor human worms is a wee bit of me. . . .
Let your be the blame and yours be the shame:
What ye do unto them ye do also to ME."
poem by Robert William Service
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Survival Kit
the grass accepts death
of all it has, leaves and roots
its color blends with
the dust and parched mud
cracking surfaces
it also knows to preserve
its species
burying resilient seeds on
the cracks
and when it rains it begins
to grow buds
roots and all and the whole
ground is green again
meanwhile on cracked grounds
where once the pond was
the whiskers of the catfish begin
to wriggle
shedding off mud around its skin
the fish begins to swim
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rosy Hue
When I look back through the rose shaded glass of the past
All hurts are forgotten as if expunged in gentler reminiscences.
The jibes and cuts of the bullies tongue and fist
Or the strangled loves of adolescence
Where like a hook caught fish would wriggle with embarrassment
And shed tears of self destruction
To think the world would end because of one rejection.
Of the loss of friends through death or the vicissitudes of life
And all the failures big and small; of which I suppose are many.
Yet the me whose here to look down the road, would not be, if not for these.
Yet though sometimes I regret the things not done
And pine goals not yet reached.
I wouldn't have missed the journey for the world.
I am maybe no more a wiser man but I'm certain more content.
Copyright P H Brookes 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
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I Have Worms Inside My Mouth
at first i wanted to spit them all
wanting to relieve myself
with all the hassle
in keeping worms
that my friends detest
they tell me
that i must spit them all
for reasons of
sanitation
or perhaps
for my own sanity
i think about it
and the possibilities
of finally throwing up
after all i get
nauseous
this feeling of trying to hide
some things
inside the mouth
(do you know
about it?)
i could not do the throwing up
and so
the worms are still there
it is something
about giving them
temporary shelter
a home
i did not listen to myself
i did not listen to their advices
i decided to keep the worms for good
swallowing each worm
sliding in my esophagus
and finally settling inside the
rooms of my heart
i dream about each worm
wriggling inside my brain
but i keep them still
despite the mixed feelings of
pleasure and pain
one day
the worms become butterflies
and i feel ready for
this beautiful eventuality
i look up
to the heavens
on a very bright day
i spit them
all free
to the skies to the clouds
and to the trees
where they all
rightfully belong
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There was a young lad from Hong Kong
who stood up all day singing songs
the ants in his pants
made him wriggle and prance
so he just couldn't sit for too long.
quote by by Ruth Walters
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The public, more often than not, will forgive mistakes, but it will not forgive trying to wriggle and weasel out of one.
quote by Lewis Grizzard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And I Sing This
And I sing this alone
Asong of unforgettable tune
Then I raise up the voice
In a standing out hoarse
Such a cold blooded animal Iam
And swim now alone
Down there, with hot music
I come back in runic make up
And I sing this beside awide tone
And I sing this alone
I was never meant to do this
I was never supposed to bury
my earlier self and wriggle
out of the strong fish tail
what a foolish thing to believe
I'm back down there
and swim in murky
waters, cold blooded
Covered in seaweeds
Like all men from my tribe
And I sing this last verse alone
That I hit the bells, bells, bells
In style
And I sing this best song
The audience follow my steps
And sing along above their voices
And this is my song
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Compete Bid for Attention Praise
praise healthy little boys girls
wriggle squeal in position chairs
compete bid for attention praise
poem by Terence George Craddock
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