Arachnid Requiem Poem by Satan Esquire

Two, four, six, eight
Octoglots can hardly wait
To spin you round in silk argot
Until you're wound up heel to toe

And there you'll hang on the Babel tree
A testament to cacophony
With nary a thought, but plenty to say
You'll draw the crowds in every day

A fly, a mosquito, a wasp or two
They'll read your work whilst on the loo (tribute alert!)
And buzz, and flutter, and excogitate
To flatter you and fill your plate

Until, at last, in a fit of pique
They bite the sack and watch you leak
Sentence fragments, bits of bile
Oblique phrasings, turns of smile

Delusive dalliances, friendship feints
Sketchwork done in finger paints
Arias in broken keys
Spit shines wrought in green disease

Til finally the husk hangs free
Light as air in the evening breeze
Baked in the sun at a fair 350
Then served on a crackerjack. Ain't that nifty?