When I dissect you beneath my finger, <br />Pale grey mosquito, I feel you wriggle <br />And play dead, thinking I'll let you go; but <br />You are caught; and not till I remove those <br />Crumpled wings, those spindly legs, that ugly <br />Offending pinprick of a head, will I <br />Leave off - not till your needle is broken. <br /> <br />You may have kept yourself in trim - alert, <br />Agile, and all that; danced on my skin and <br />Played a hundred different tunes in my ear; <br />You may have swirled in delight about my <br />Sleepless tormented face, and tantalised <br />Every inch of my being - but it's all over, <br />My matador. Zigzagging through a broad <br />Beam of light, I swung you with all the force <br />Of my left hand, and as you curved to escape <br />I brought you down with my right. <br /> <br />..........................................................Your body, <br />Filled with blood [my blood] waits to be opened; <br />But do you think the bull, the poor clumsy <br />Bull, is so crude as to squash you into <br />A bloody mess? No, with your own sword, I <br />Shall kill you, and watch your blood [my blood] drain <br />Away. There is no sympathy, no anger; <br />The world is not large enough for both of us.<br /><br />Tan Pratonix<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mosquito-8/
