There's this spider I know.
He sits on my lips,
Weaving webs of pure silk.
To trap in my lies...
...those little black flies..
For what horror would ensue
should one but slip.
What havoc I'd wreak
Upon my web of silk...
...now oh so weak.
For there is never just one.
Now there's a hole!

I'm done!

And out they would swarm!
A cloud thick as smoke.

Oh those little black flies....
They'd be my demise...
Should one but slip.
I could choke.