It glides along the bottom of the deepest, darkest seas,
Dining on detritus drifting down – rich potpourris
Of silt and mud and engine sludge and maybe bits of cheese –
Not caring if it’s sterile or it’s full of dread disease,
And which comes to them despite a lack of “thank you” and of “please”.
The female of this critter wears its ovaries outside –
Where by all potential suitors they are sure to be espied –
A condition more advanced girl-species never would abide,
Their derrieres and waists and hips already plenty wide...
But you didn’t hear ME say that – if I did, well then you lied.
Imagine all the teasing teenage acorn girl-worms face
From teenage acorn boy-worms (such as acorn girl-worms chase –
Though out loud they claim the boy-worms are a deep-sea alien race):
The acorn boys low-five while making cracks vile, crude, and base –
“Check the ovaries on THAT one!” – with a smirk on each one’s face.
So I guess that you could say the acorn worm’s like reg’lar folk:
They slave all day, come home, sit down, and grab themselves a coke,
And gripe about the worm-race, and ’bout how they’re always broke.
But...the deep-sea acorn worm’s the only answer to the joke,
“What acorn’s mating ritual does not produce an oak?”
—Acorn A. Mouse