There’s no worse sound in the early hours of the morning than the tell-tale whine of one of those leggy flying bug weirdos. I don’t really know what they are. Are they mosquitos? Who knows. All I know is that they’re nasty and creepy and make an awful noise and need to die. All of them. This poem was written a couple of weeks ago at about four in the morning which probably goes some way to explain the quality.
Horsefly, mosquito, whatever you be
Have you no mercy for young men like me
Who seek only sleep at this hour of night?
I’m sure you’d be happier out in the light
So yes, I’m impressed at the distance you’ve flown
But this bed is my bed and my blood is my own
If I hear your high whining come drifting by me
I’ll leap from my bed and I’ll hunt ceaselessly
I’ll lure you with light and I’ll stand very still
And when you emerge, I’ll move in for the kill
I’ll strike with a book or a shoe off the floor
And leave naught but a smudge on the back of the door