When of all times has the generous worm become doctor of peace?
Has it considered the rough gravels along the path?
Or has it segmented body finds a fitting ground?
Maybe its boast of many mouths had concealed the flame lying nearby.
The worm Chief has outgrown its mother's laps
Now only the mother earth can rear her
When in known history has the head implored the feet?
Or demanded to walk for her?
In the giggle of importance has the worm forgot it role
Like a bird flying to a trap, it's hooked
Between being a meal or an object of ridicule
Pull out of your pride, oh ecomog chief
And till the ground for fertile plain
It is the owner of the body who knows where it ails
Can call a doctor for cure not a worm
For in the quest of being the generous worm
Do you become a meal for the quarrelsome bird
