Whack 'Em Dead Poem by Beatrice Preti

On the table sat a moth
Dark against the tablecloth
Looking from a different angle
I can see its wee legs tangle
In the threads upon the table
It trips, because it’s no longer able
To walk upon the tablecloth
So it tries to fly, the moth,
But the threads are holding strong
And the moth knows something’s wrong
It can’t fly away — it’s stuck!
What a stroke of bad, bad luck!
And so the moth decides to cry
Lament and mourn and scream out: WHY? ? ?
But I can’t hear its tragic calls
Because its voice is far too small
And so I grab a book and creep
Up to the moth to take a peek
And, since it’s stuck, I smack it dead
One quick bash upon its head
Pesky creatures, these moths are
Ugly even from afar
And when they get inside the rice
Spoil the wheat and beans and spice
You wish they would all just die
And then, you too, scream out: WHY? ? ?
It’s best to stop them in their tracks
With a big book and a smack
And that, my friends, was how I was able
To whack a moth on my kitchen table
And forgive myself, not a moment after
With a sigh, and some nervous laughter
Because, what if this moth had friends?
An army who’d just seen its end?
I’d be out of beans and rice
For an eternity (not to mention spice!)
They’d eat me out of house and home
They’d eat it, then leave me all alone
So now I’ll go and hunt some more
Even though it’s quite a chore
To find the moths and whack them dead
With a big smack on their heads
Say, my friend, care to come?
I can’t promise, but it might be fun
Take this book, and lightly tread
And, who knows? You might whack one dead!