Worms I’m sure lose patience
With rocks with moles with each other
And weeds too must get antsy sometimes
Because of trowels
or other spouting seeds or frost
Even clouds
Even with all of their comings or goings
Probably get annoyed in their own way
With the far off horizon
So why should I be surprised at all that
Who wins or
who loves who
Or even how the world spins to and fro
Causes such unending uproars among
the living and the dead
Or among the good or bad
or squirmy
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