(After R Chetwynd-Hayes)
When you see them headless rise,
Worms whom birds have half consumed,
Headless, un-dead, writhing, limbs,
Earth's lost fingers, un-entombed:
You may be glad they can not bite,
Thank Light Lords, they've no mandibles,
No jaw or other yawning maws,
No tongues enslimed with poison dribbles.
But weak as they seem, they fevered writhe,
Bind and hold and fasten down,
Like the hookworms they can catch
A shoelace, cuff or trailing gown.
Summon by a master word,
A foe they'll seize for strangling,
Un-life they hate the living, still,
And rise to hate's Orm-wrangling!