Spider Matriarch

The spiders hate you more than you do them.

They write spider poetry of our icky phlegm,

Our hairless bodies, our shameful four limbs,

How we interrupt them when they sing their hymns.

Poems dedicated to the spider matriarch,

The one whose nest would span Central park,

The one whose mandibles crush every prey,

The one who still lives when the sun grows grey.

They ask the matriarch to rid them of the curse,

The curse of the two-legs that keeps getting worse.

The matriarch’s words for the small ones: “Wait.

Wait until darkness, when the dreadful weight

Of sunlight is lifted, that is when you win.

Creep on their bodies, their disgusting skin,

Lay eggs in their mouths, conquer from within.

And wait once more, in the webs you spin.”


Pebble symphony

A ball on the floor, not sure what it is,

Gray and hairy, now that’s a quiz.

It doesn’t move on its own at all,

Just with the wind, and it rolls like a ball.

I recognize some dust-like qualities,

And something that looks like moldy old cheese.

Dunno what it is but I know what I’ll use it for,

The motivation to clean, the dickiest chore.

I took my vacuum, my trusty J.E,

Named after the prez who’s so dear to me.

Absorb, inhale, imbibe and suck,

It does its job, about it doesn’t muck.

I hear a swoosh as the dust goes in,

And a sudden jingle. What did I win?

Ah, I guess it’s pebbles on steel,

Bouncing inside with rock’n’roll zeal.

The visit to the beach brought more than sand

And I got to hear the stone-symphony at hand.

Secret of niceness

“Can you tell me why that man is so nice?

I don’t even know him, just rolling some dice.

But he seems like a pal who hugs really well,

With a big laugh and a gingerbread smell.

I bet, if I shared with him some of my troubles,

He would advise me, not bursting my bubbles.”

I looked at where my friend was looking

To see what this nicest stranger had cooking.

“Well, you see what he has on his face,

A great big beard that’s in a growth race,

With a moustache climbing up his cheeks.

They could hold food to sustain him for weeks.

There is the secret and the hidden reason,

Furry is nice and it’s always in season.

Why do you think we think bears are nice?

They’re super furry, as some cats and mice.

Furry equals friendly in our monkey brains,

Good news for us with great hair gains.

You’re my friend as I have a beard,

And you’d likely leave if I ever sheared.”

I watched amazement dawn in his eyes,

As he was computing my fresh advice.

“Holy monkeys Friendman! You’re absolutely right!

I’ll start growing one with all my might!”