They undulate. I ululate. We understand.
I have long loved worms, and it does not take my wife rockin’ out to “Heard it in a Love Song” while making pizza for din-din as she most affirmatively is rn to make me remember. The connection?
Oh worms and the life they lead, pooping for a better tomorrow. Who among us could ask for a higher calling? I have recently learned, from Kathleen Blakistone of Moonwater Farms, that worms have both male and female reproductive organs. They need more than one worm present at the moment of friskiness in order to reproduce. Worms live for 15 years, unless interrupted by the early bird or around our house, the chicken bill.
Meanwhile, there is a duffel bag involved in “Heart it in a Love Song,” my wife has just assured me. We have ourselves a nice big green duffel bag. Often it is filled with my green-screen equipment: the broad cut of felt, the extended piece of felt. The crown for best all-time country rock flute — that crown sits on the head of “Heard it In a Love Song” or else on upon a satin pillow, eyed by “Up the Country,” whose runner-up crown rests on a pillow of perfectly fine felt.
We segue on this assuredly 70’s playlist into “She’s Gone,” of the simmering, understated hi-hat intro. We know from past experience the whole thing is about to blow. It’s very un-worm in this way. Worms are the ultimate keep-on keepin’-onners. Not Hall & Oates on “She’s Gone.” Oates is about to blow his top. The pizza is almost ready. Yet I have only begun to record here my love and respect for worms.