The worrywart worries not
buried in his book waiting
for the plot to go wrong
Like the groundhog whistler
he hides himself away, his
lamp casts a long shadow
He avoids the light of day
wishes all in his path
would just go away
To hear his chatter bores,
his worry puss and golden
guts galore, but what worries
me is his stagecraft, an act
he doesn’t actually know
anything about shadows,
and when the penultimate
page turns blank he’ll worry:
printer’s error or by design?
The Coming of the Toads 