Insecticide


"I seem to court spiders",
Said the fly to the cricket.
"I don't know what it is.
A death wish do you suppose?"
Maybe it is the legs.
I'm a sucker for legs you know.
How they can sit in those skirts
I'll never ever know.

At first it's really good, y'know?
Like the spring's soft breeze
With the first thaw of winter.
Then it's fresh cut flowers,
Sundust drifting in the sexual tension
of a blue shadowed room
Then crimson in the window
Of a late July day,
The passion so thick it is hard to breath.
Before you know it your arms feel tight,
Your ankles are lashed,
And the streetlights glitter off the flash of gnashing teeth.
And... (shudder) I hate spiders.
"I know, said the cricket to the fly.
I know. There there. It's getting dark.
Would you like to come in for some tea?
There's someone here I think you should meet.
"Hehhh, You're not a cricket!"