O Worm, thou art sick,
Thy earthy tendrils long to prick
The burgeoning bud.
You may flourish in a flower,
A site of pleasure, sickly plucked.
That won’t wither her sweet power;
May Venus’ jaw snap shut thy luck.
That crimson bed you burrowed in,
Attacked by worms who came before,
Mocks mortal flesh and mortifies
Those tempted by such sensuous gore.
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