Enter The Beetle Poem by metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)

Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.

So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
a precarious balance on the one that won't budge.
He's a pillar of porridge made of steel and hot fudge.

An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on.
It's a race to save face on the magistrate's lawn!
The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.

All the while, a mower's blades can be heard in the distance,
and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.

The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
(their s***'s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .

The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
all the gophers, whose guts are befouled and besmutting
the whole yawning yard, it's turf slick with ennui
(from the grease of the gopher guts' grime, don't you see?) .

The tumultuous trench-war strikes a strident crescendo,
as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.

The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
t'was God's yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .