Worms

A fling to  her was unforeseen,
Dallying awhile in the lone corner unseen,
Wrinkled then wriggled her obdurate face,
The shape of rotten orange.  Good outside!
Peeling I found innumerable worms writhe
Each worm was a word of my poem.
Lines and lines queue up worms join,
A metaphysical poem is born in the orange,
The validity of the poem proclaimed,  join.
She was my poem a chain of worms crisp,
Remove the skin, the orange skin,
The rotten ugly face is seen,
Cast aspersion, it is social malady,
The whore's is a  fudge to the people
And make them good. 
A wimp of her sort cannot subsist,
Far beyond is the horizon. Worms sing.
Fecundity makes good poem, good words,
Therefore my words are worms.  Pierce
The orange flesh oh! worms,
The pealed orange is my poem.  Pierce,pierce!