As summer draws to a conclusion (in my hemisphere, at least), here’s a (sort of) tribute to the season’s least appreciated occupant.
I dreamed I was a fat mosquito
and thought it not a sin
to drain the blood of every human
to pierce and pock their skin.
I was a loving ‘squito mama
with a lot of larvae,
Denzel, Jane and Wilhelmina,
Emmy, Joe and Harvey.
I lived a life deemed worthy by
the insect god Big Kevin,
and thus was asked to come and live
with him in ‘squito Heaven.
there was a ‘squito from Toledo, knew not where to go, when an Okie from Muskogee, carelessly upon it he sat, and that was that.
A hellish vision, indeed!
There once was a poet named Mitch
Who found all his rhymes without a hitch
Then the skeeters came a’biting
And Mitch could do no writing
For his fingers were busy scratching his itch
Been there!
Outstanding, Mitch!
Years ago on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, while fishing from the pier and waiting for a falling tide, we named the mosquito as state bird. I love your poem!!
Yet, it is heaven to the Big Bird who stalks you and moves in for the kill.
Big fish, little fish…
I love thus!!!
Mitch, Here in Texas, Mosquitos are fat at the time of their first flight.
I knew it! Minions of the Underworld.