My Resident Grub Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Last time the world did smack my gob
I'd just imbibed a witchety grub.
The grub's intention was to slide
from uvula to my inside.
Now, normally, when bugs dropp in
a human's stomach they don't grin
because the belly has its fire
digesting foods within its mire.

The acid's name is hydrochloric
a distant cousin to phosphoric.
Now, as we age we get less sour
as gradually we lose the power
to make this acid H C L,
which can destroy a turtle's shell.

My acid thus is ineffective
and to the grub, to be reflective,
it's heaven's kitchen full of food.
Hence he dove in, of splendid mood
and has, since that historic day
been resident in Gastric Bay.