Bed Bugs

There are many-a-fly in my bedroom

Bugs galore, high and low, near and far

But how are they able to enter

And escape like a gold shooting star?

 

They blend in too much with the carpet

A puzzle with legs and with wings

And when I do finally spot one

It escapes in amongst other things

 

My door is always shut and closed firmly

My windows are locked, key and all

My curtains are few and drawn tightly

But these bugs manage to creep in, big and small

 

Daddy-long-legs are, course, the most common

Other flies, spiders, ‘squitos come too

But no matter in what size or colour they come

My eyes see them as such that they grew

 

To beasts of the jungle (or garden)

Wild cats of savannahs (or drought)

The monsters or creatures meet under my bed

And crawl on me while I’m down and out

 

I hate that I do try to spray them

With Mortein and the likes so they stay

But lucky for them, my spraying does fail

And the buggers flap and wriggle away

 

In bed, my focus and attention is often

Paid to these beings of miniature form

So I’ll be glad to know, when times become so

That sleeping sans bugs is the norm.

 

 

 

 

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2 comments
  1. Eva Setton said:

    LOVE your poem on bugs etc. EXACTLY how I feel about the little critters ! Look under sheets, behind curtains …….spray Mortein. …..

  2. Bugs A. Nonymous said:

    We don’t mean any harm.

    Surely we can co-exist?

    Have mercy!

    be our friend!

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