When I am gone
My poetry may live on.
And when I go
Others will know
Whether it is so.
While in the cold ground
There is nothing profound
For worms have no time
For fleeting rhyme.
But love to dine …
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K Morris - Poet 
I suppose we all end as worm food, Kevin. Not too pleasant a thought, but a fact. (Unless you’ve been cremated, I suppose.)
Indeed we do all end as food for the worms unless, as you say, we have been cremated!
The alternative is to be burnt. ;-/ xx Michael
That is undoubtedly the case, Michael!