Mama fed me earthworms when I was a baby mole.
She chopped them, sliced them, diced them, and sometimes served them whole.
But first she said, “Excuse yourself, give praise, and don’t be rude.
We’re all of us pursuers, and we’re all of us pursued.
Some days we get to eat, and other days we are the food.”
I studied hard at school and I met my mole goals.
I furrowed to my burrow and I dug my mole holes.
I grew up happy, healthy, and I got to smell the roses,
But Mama’s served up truth each night, right beneath our noses.
No one lives forever. Every body decomposes.
So when the earthworms dine on me, Dear God, please rest my soul.
I don’t pretend to understand your ways. I’m just a mole.
Anything you tell me to, I’ll do without a question.
But maybe you won’t mind a theological suggeston.
Everybody dies. But how ’bout I be the exception?