"Ode to a Spider"
Spider, spider, teentsie spider,
I sit here and drink some apple cider,
Lighting a cigarette
With an old Bic lighter.
And seeing you spin your web
To the tune of Boccherini's "Minuet,"
My only thought is this:
"I hate you, and I want you to die."
Ah, but what right do I have
To rob you of your life?
I could squeeze you in the palm of my hand,
I could squish you with the sole of my shoe,
And all the pretty horses would cry, "Boo-hoo!"
But, I would use a cobweb
As your funeral pall,
The one I found in a shopping mall
Not too long ago;
And I would bury my head in the sand
To avoid marital bliss
If it meant, "We won't go and see the show,"
The one I was looking forward to
Before I bowed my head to cry
With the thought of a fractured kiss.
Alas, I say this with a sigh:
"No one will hear the marching band
"Playing the songs of yesteryear"
(The ones by John Philip Sousa, I fear)
So, I will spare you your life,
Because I just want to sit here and drink my apple cider.
Isn't the world we live in grand?
Here's to you, my lovely friend,
I drink in your honor
For, now you will die
Because you had to go and swallow a fly—
Your headstone will read:
"Patience makes the heart a yawner."
This should be every spider's creed.