On Worms

 The worm drives its way round and through the wood
 And does not know the dust left in its bore
 Once made the show case strong and whole and good
 and with a bang the lead glass hits the floor.

 Ants wend and weave their ways back to the nest.
 They write their tales of scent on rich brown earth.
 The names of those we love and all the rest
 Could be you will not miss them. There's the mirth.

 All that there was winds down. That's how it's made.
 But thoughts of youth are all we have to lose;
 And though some of the old flames have to fade,
 Do not think that you'll get the chance to choose.

 By the time you wish you had not, you did;
 Say what you mean. The truth can not be hid.

                                -- Mike Ford
                                   (done by Dave Who Turns)

The first form is here.