We’re living in the year of the spider
Of woven golden silken thread
Of sticky drippy weave filled dread
That capture small fly’s that stray.
Cobwebs that spiders climb each day
Up ladders in the sky filled room
That spells a fly’s quiet doom
As the spider toy’s to play.
This is the year of the spider,
All fly’s take note with dread.
You only keep the spider fed
In those cobwebs so enticing to climb.
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Comments about this poem (Spiders by David Wood )
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