Bugs

I may be crude, rude and lewd,

And not at all a geriatric dude.

Just a link in the chain of food.

Even at the start, the germs are queued.

By mid-life, we're red meat stewed.

The bugs are hungry, no matter what our mood.

Still there in the end, when we're finally unglued.

Like away goals, roundly booed.

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