50x365 #127: C. McLean
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl..., he recited as he followed me down the hall between classes.
Stop following me, I said.
...worms play pinochle on your...
I stopped short.
Quit. Saying. That. Poem.
...and spit them out. He grinned.
People are staring.
He looked pleased as all hell.