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
