Dear Mr. Cockroach,
(Or maybe you're a Miss?
I can't really discern
From whence you piss.)
You scared me to death
While I was washing my face
So I grabbed the equivalent
of bad-bug Mace:
My big yellow can
Of lethal Raid.
All over you and the tiles
It was sprayed.
You flailed and rolled around,
Didn't want to give in,
Clinging to the last creep
Of insectual sin.
I totally admit
I screamed like a baby.
Am I too much a girl
To deal with you? Maybe.
Your antennae flickered
As chemical war was fought.
I'm scared that of your brethren
My walls are fraught.
As I squirmed in disgust
I dialed the number
Of a valiant gentleman
Who didn't mind the cumber.
"I'm scared of this roach
and I'm all alone!"
I whined (half laughing)
Into the phone.
He probably thought
I was being a dastard,
But next time he's here
He'll kill you, roach-bastard.
It'll be less a battle
If a man reads your last rites--
Someone with testosterone
Who won't bother with a fight.
He'd spot you and give me
My ultimate wish--
A hasty death
With one fell SQUISH.
RIP, bug.
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