last night i fell asleep outside on the grass. little buzzing creatures decided that my dozing was an obvious sign that it was now appropriate to feast on my body. i didn't agree, nor do i agree now at this time. in fact, i'm appalled that they would even think to do such a thing to me. i mean, really. who do they think they are? the combination of my constant itching and my severe anger resulted in the construction of a poem about a mosquito. enjoy.
mosquito.
you wait for an unexpecting victim to come your way,
and suddenly blindside them, making them prey.
you stick your ugly straw into my arm,
siphoning blood as i live on, unalarmed.
suddenly i itch, i scratch at the place,
as my skin rises, and reddens in pace.
the result: uncontrollable itching and scratching and pain,
anger, horror, and cussing the name.
oh mosquito, i hate you. i'm sorry i'm frank,
but to be honest, you're kind of a terrible skank.
if that makes no sense, (which it probably doesn't)
i'll explain to you now, oh fret you mustn't.
we all hate you, so much. you're so mean and plain gross,
who likes a bug that takes more than their dose?
so go away, please. we'd all be so glad,
if you stopped feasting on every young lad.
if i bought a cat, i'd probably name him frank.
b.
No comments:
Post a Comment