Devious self-interpretation of motive in silk webbed mind, stuck in the trench warfare with the bugs and captured flies.
Squirming, disarmed, rattled teeth approached by death of the natural spider.
Slender and tormenting its captives in her somber lullabies, perverting happiness into altercation.

The ceremony is stretching its legs and fangs. The dinner table is set. The knives and forks, the cups and plates.
Mangled apathetic corpses, travel the distance from television to kitchen.
Slobs and lumps gather to de-funk the contents.
Inhales. Down. Waves of hands. Snickers of teeth to stomach. Grinding, turning, swallow.

The head of the spider appears.
The waves of hands, inhales, teeth.
The spider smiles and observes the meek as they gouge in their eyes with chicken legs and apple fat pies.
"With all eight legs and all my eyes, have never seen such cold gluttony, what does that make I?"