Cicadas, always hidden in the tree branches
But always found the next day, dead and grotesque
Hideous, bulging eyes and paper bag crunch of skin
Persistent hissing and disturbed at the close of summer
Lady of the morning and gentlemen of the night
I give you, the all knowing Insect Man
A sideshow oddity, with yellow skin and red eyes of rage
Without a bride to call his own and ashamed to speak
Always bites the hand that cleans his cage