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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Dark · #2271904
A leg-challenged spider tells his sorry tale
I’m a wee legless spider; forever I sit,
a speck of an insect and not worth a spit.
Elected “best props” back in pre-webbing school,
today I have zero and feel like a fool.

My first leg was crushed by a speeding-fast fly
who apparently wanted to suffer and die!
Leg two was plucked off by a creepy young boy
with tweezers he doubtless calls playmate and toy.

The third leg was lost in a fight for a dame
and with only five left, I was limping and lame.
A year passed and I managed not to lose more,
then, stumbling on dinner, I broke off leg four.

I figured I still had the legs of a horse
(until lightning-struck five left me tri-ped, of course!)
Leg six had gangrene, and leg seven was burned
when a spark from a fireplace ash overturned.

My last leg was strong, so I used it to hop.
I deftly maneuvered past vacuum and mop.
But in crossing a paper laid flat by a poet,
Leg eight stopped to read - and I didn’t know it!

I hopped off the leg – landed right on the page
near the title, font chiller, Of Spiders and Rage.
Motionless, angered; as ever, laconic,
I shouted my loudest: “Now ain’t that ironic!"

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