Under This Loop Of Honeysuckle, A Creeping, Coloured Caterpillar, I Gnaw The Fresh Green Hawthorn Spray, I Nibble It Leaf By Leaf Away. Down Beneath Grow Dandelions, Daisies, Old-Man'S-Looking-Glasses; Rooks Flap Croaking Across The Lane. I Eat And Swallow And Eat Again. Here Come Raindrops Helter-Skelter; I Munch And Nibble Unregarding: Hawthorn Leaves Are Juicy And Firm. I'll Mind My Business: I'm A Good Worm. When I'm Old, Tired, Melancholy, I'll Build A Leaf-Green Mausoleum Close By, Here On This Lovely Spray, And Die And Dream The Ages Away. Some Say Worms Win Resurrection, With White Wings Beating Flitter-Flutter, But Wings Or A Sound Sleep, Why Should I Care? Either Way I'll Miss My Share. Under This Loop Of Honeysuckle, A Hungry, Hairy Caterpillar, I Crawl On My High And Swinging Seat, And Eat, Eat, Eat, As One Ought To Eat.