A Quartet of Things That Bug Me!

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?

The common fly's my enemy,

they buzz around me merrily,

then land in places I can't see,

to tickle my anatomy.


This pest is quite an agile squatter,

until I reach for my fly swatter,

then off they go avoiding death

at my missed swipes till out of breath

I wait for them to land nearby,

and smash their scattered brains bye, bye.


But someday they will pay me back,

when I become a putrid snack,

as wingless maggots crawl through me,

and eat my flesh, revengefully.

Ante Up.

Some ants got in my pants one day,

red ones, who bit in private ways,

I danced like mad out on that street,

my hat fell off down near my feet,

the crowds that passed encircled me,

they laughed and clapped so indiscreet,

some even chose to take a seat,

but when the last ant met his splat,
 
I had eighty bucks inside my hat. 
 
 
>0Oo<------->0Oo<-------->0Oo<
 

Centipede

It's Buggie-Wuggie time.

The centipede's a leggy bug,
who should be taught to cut a rug,
imagine such a happenstance,
if centipedes could learn to dance.

In tiny tap shoes they'd become,
rhythmic delights for everyone,
with microphones aimed at their feet,
they'd set off such staccato beats.

They'd surely do well at ballet,
on one hind leg they'd stand and sway,
then leap and twirl and pirouette,
one hundred satined feet I'd bet,
could dance all night without a sweat.

They'd dance the can-can perfectly,
as fifty legs kicked gleefully,
then fifty more would rise pint-sized,
with skillful balance, synchronized.

Flea circuses are not for me,
and I'm quite bored with spelling bees,
there must be room for centipedes,
performing foxtrots on T.V.

Soon teenagers would imitate, 
this latest dance craze with their dates,
as fifty kids would make a train,
joined hands to hips they'd entertain,
one hundred feet would leap and hop,
to songs like "Legs" from Z.Z. Top.

It's time to recognize the needs,
some better use for centipedes,
if they're all dancing at the clubs,
it might keep them out of our tubs!!

Cocksure.

The cockroach is a clever chum,

with little fear of extinction,

turn on your lights and off they'll run,

then kill the switch and back they'll come,

beneath your stove they calmly wait,

under your fridge they procreate,

and leave a trail to desecrate,

your kitchen floors with what they ate.

If they could spell they'd surely print

their fearless reign in excrement,

even the White House has been cursed, 

with cockroaches not yet dispersed

and if men's acts of war become,

some nuclear dev-as-tat-ion, 

it will not rid us of this scourge,

from ash and ruin they'll emerge,

when all our bombs at last are hurled,

then cockroaches will rule the world.