More poddish poetry

The pod! The pod! It is quiet and still
In a jar in the pot where I used to grow dill.
When will it wake?
When will the husk break?
When will the creature inside pay its bill?
You say, "It can’t pay, for it hasn’t got money."
Hasn’t got yet, but just you wait, honey!
It will work, it will toil, it will rush hither and yon,
It will get lots of things done when it’s got its game on.
You wonder who would dare to give it a job?
My, but you’re doubtful, my dear Ichabob!
Pod creatures must earn their gruel and their swill,
And if I have any say, then this one here will.
I have an old friend,
Old Royster McFinn,
McFinn says he knows of a job at the mill.
"The mill!" you exclaim, "but that’s inhumane labor!"
Quite right, but the creature’s inhuman, I’d wager.
You cry "It’s too small!" and there you're quite wrong,
For though tiny right now, it will grow big and strong.
So stop with your dithering, don’t keep on whining,
‘Cause I need to go now and get dressed for dining.
The little pod creature, when it’s healthy, not ill,
With whatever it’s got, such as teeth, claws, or gills,
Will work very well, will work like the dickens,
Whether it’s plumbing or plotting or feeding the chickens.
And when time’s gone by and the plot is all thickened,
The things it has done will instill us with thrills, chills or pills (or chill-pills).