I read a poem called ‘spider month'
It portrayed the fear, and was a triumph
In reply I wrote this poem below
(The poet was V. Doherty, so you know)
I also dread that time of year
But thankful for the flies they clear
I wish they'd hide, stay out of sight
Not scurry 'cross the boards at night
A movement in periphery
Makes heart rate rise immediately
I'm quick to make my feet retract
For fear of them is not an act
Perhaps we shouldn't be so hard
On keeper of the fly graveyard
I have one up upon a shelf
I never see him, he is stealth
I often have to use a Hoover
Just as a dead fly remover
He k**s the wasps, he's that hardcore
As creatures, I hate them much more
As long as he stays out if sight
To let him live? I think I might! X x