They give me the willies.
They give me fits.
Those eight-legged bastards.
I squish them to bits.
No paper and glass
To carry them outside.
If I see an arachnid
It's spidercide.
Oh, some are harmless,
Bleeding-hearts will proclaim.
I don't differentiate.
They're all treated the same.
This no-tolerance policy
Might be having an effect.
They're evolving at my house,
I suspect.
If I see 'em, I kill 'em.
But they'll be alright
If these creepy-crawlies
Just stay out of sight.
Surviving generations
Pretend they are gone,
Because they know, if they're spotted,
It. Is. On.
Active Ink Slinger
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