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Book Worm

The book worm,
Wears his glasses and plaid pants,
He's not living in the dirt,
Never asked a girl to dance.
 
Micro, not macro,
He surely is so small,
If he stretched out his body,
He'd be twelve inches tall.
 
He puts on his "jean" mutated,
Acid washed clothes,
He's still back in the eighties,
In this fad I suppose.
 
The book worm is the guy,
Who got the 4.0,
He will never, ever,
Be called,
A simple average Joe.
 
When the bell curve rings,
It tells him what he's heard,
He's a genius not an idiot,
And this he knows for sure.
 
The library is a place,
Where he feels he is secure,
He reads, and reads, and reads,
And reads, and reads some more.
 
He studies rocket science,
In his free time alone,
And has a little wife,
That stays with him at home.
 
He doesn't have a backbone,
Can't walk like you or me,
But doesn't even care,
If he's slow or slimy.
 
He has no helpful legs,
Not one, two, or three,
He can't travel very far,
But doesn't watch T.V.
 
Math, language, and arts,
He knows them all too well,
What an incredible animal!
What a story I have to tell!
 



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