I hear for every acre there’s a ton of worms beneath.

I hear that worm-meat’s better meat than fatted barley


We’re farming only half our farms, and that’s the new



I think I’m growing barley, bullocks, pigs and lambs


From six a.m. till nine at night I toil my body sore.

But I’m only feeding the roots of the worms, it’s worms I’m

  working for.


Below my clover meadows worms are bellowing in the


They’re bound for nobody’s oven, one or two might go to

  the lark.

They gobble their way through the earth’s black pudding

  safe as they were in the ark.


Worms riot and revel in their rude and naked hordes.

And most of what I fatten, far, far more than my farm


Falls into their idle mouths, and the whole lot live like



from the collection ‘What is the truth?’