Wiry silver threads

Enlongated under hall cupboards

By the stairs

Weaved by a six-legged weaver

Everyone admires the

Beauty of their craft

Wafting around in the draft of the house

Every insect around knows

Bristles of doom await

While the spiders home hangs around

Every fly prays for a

Brush or feather duster

When any insect

Even attempts to escape

Back comes the spider

Wiry and Delicate

Every flies nightmare

Beckons