An earwig, brown and also shiny
sat on a river bank, alone.
Compared to others he was tiny,
a critter made of skin and bone.
This mission's solitary aim
was simply to elucidate
his role in God's creation game,
to find himself, at any rate.
For many long and lonely hours
he stared into the stream's reflection.
Half sitting in a sea of flowers,
a specimen of weird perfection.
And when the Moon arrived at last,
dead shadows out to find their prey,
the little guy crawled very fast
into a giant stack of hay.
His intricate, but feeble mind
was at a loss as much as ever,
his image, front and from behind
did look presentable, but never
would he resemble to keen eyes
a hairless critter, plain and nude,
and to this day he does despise
the EARWIG name as rather crude.
this poem reminds me of Carter, i cant tell you why perhaps the feeble mind and the lack of hair i have to give a ten on this Regards AJS
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Perhaps he hasn't got any ears either herbert, poor soul. No crowning glory. So sad. Nice poem though. Love Ernestine XXX