Spiderman Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She'd called him Spiderman.
He was, that much is true, a spider.
He did delight in catching flies
in home-made nets, he also ate
any who were too dumb to stay away
so, all in all there was not one thing wrong
with him and that is why the following does shock.

He got up late that morning after the election,
she served him fresh caught flies, and one big bee,
the drink was blood with just a touch of hirudine
to keep the clotting gremlin out of it, they say
that spiders love to eat and stick to only flies
they have a love life just the same as normal guys.

He left, without a word, one leg left on the plate
and two small wings, blood drink unfinished
but not a note, no word to neighbours. Dammit.
And from the rafters looked a gecko, cute he was
and winked and blinked, he loved his spiders,
rare and of best stock, and that is how it was.