The Oncosphere or Hexacanth was not designed for frolic
His part may be described perhaps as coldly diabolic:
He’s born amid some gruesome things, but this should count for virtue,
That steadily, ‘gainst fearful odds, he plies his task to hurt you!
He’s very small, a mere pin’s head, beset with six small hooklets,
Is whirled about by wind and rain through puddles, field and brooklets;
But if a pig should swallow him, as many porkers do,
He’s made a start with no mistake: He’s on the road to you!
Again I say, don’t blame the brat—he hasn’t any head!
It isn’t any fault of his—he wasn’t painted red!
But once inside, he burrows through, and gropes his way about,
Then swells and sprouts a head at last, though his is inside out!
He’s now a cysticercus in the muscle of a pig,
With just a sporting chance of getting out to grow up big.
If you’ll consent to eat your pork half-raw or underdone,
His troubles will be over, and a Tapeworm will have won
He’ll cast his anchors out, and on your best digested food
Will thrive, and bud
an endless chain to raise a countless brood.