The worms are buried underneath concrete behind the stairs
I saw them once upon a time when I was petty scared
Weaving through the narrow streets where traffic is abhorred
I prefer the tiny places not built anymore
Twenty thousand people in a bedroom wall
Fifty thousand if you're counting down the hall
I used to live in a society and then it died now I'm happy just to be alive

The worms are buried in the dirt and live under the ground
Decomposing nutrients and all that we've thrown out
The Linnea's longissimus is a hundred feet long
Worms don't have eyes or ears but they can sing a song
They warned of oil in the soil and the grass
At Shackamaxon Max you don't look ready for the task
I'll try to as pithy and precise as I can
I meander I'm rambling again