The Glowworm to the Mower

after Marvell

The nightingale is quite a nuisance,
like you, the midges and the toads.
She comes as I try to patch my plans
of a family together, and unloads:

“my tale is so full of tragedy;
I was so beautiful once, my tongue
was pink as summer strawberries,
and all the men would beat their drums.

“…anyway, my favourite worms are silk;
though you look pretty juicy. Have
you met the duracell bunny? He kills
me; his stupid ears!” By then, the grave

is a bright idea and I take my torch
to the shed for a shovel; a pair of legs
appears belonging to a rake like you!—crutch,
bent double with pen, ash raining from a fag.