The things which brood beneath the soil,
The worms and ants and roaches,
Writhe and wiggle,
Snicker and giggle,
And they dance a dance quite royal
As the dirt encroaches.

You can feel them lurk ’round where you sit,
Then from the grass,
A bright red tick.
And with a dart,
A pounce
(To the nurses accounts)
Although the skin was split
Where the little bug bit,
It was the soil that made you sick.

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