If I were a skeeter
If I were a skeeter,
hanging on the wall
with daddy-long legss
and a needle for a nose—
with those multiple eyes
I could look all around,
get my head on my shoulders,
and my feet on the ground.
I could sit there and think
‘til I fin’ly come to
that the best place to eat
is with my needle in you.
Of course you would swear
and get very coarse
fleas are persistant
but skeeters are worse.
The outcome is this:
I would sit there and chug
in my heavenly bliss.
You’d be bugged
and somewhat pissed;
but all the same
it comes down to this:
you’re so sweet, I just can’t resist.
1971
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