Worms

Pharyngula: The god worm

It was early eighteen forty three
  When Edgar gave praise to the Grub--
The hero who conquered Hamlet's "to be"
  (And comes to us all: there's the rub).
Though Poe's devourer still rules today,
  Protagonist in every cast;
Its mother's cruel role in brain decay
  Is unsurpassed.

Watch now as her pundits opine
  On fragmented frettings from god
Reframed for the public party line
  As a moral measuring rod.
Watch how their worm-tongued wringing of words,
  Unmoved by zeitgeist flux,
Finds merit in mute god-goaded herds.
  (Their deus ex machina sucks.)

And dare to describe her circular track
  That returns to the self-same spot,
A sophist's path of there and back
  To prove what reason cannot;
Yes, dare to trace her riddled way
  Of rot beneath the pate;
Deplore the digested, festering grey...
  You'll stand accused of hate!

She's a maggot, painless, but pretty
  To those with lobotomized taste;
And her victims deserve only pity
  For the wit that she's turned into waste.
Deworm if you possibly can,
  And courageously, coolly, confirm
That the play is the pantomime, "Man,"
  And its stage fright the Credulous Worm.