A weaver loves weaving silky blankets.
A spider's home a web is stitched by threads
With many rooms; in them are tiny heads.
Their bodies preserved eaten like crumpets.
The weaver weaves it's net from yarns of steel,
So testify the insects, the flies and bees;
It laid like a trap spun from trees to trees;
Whosoever passes suffers you feel.

There lives in darkest dreary room so dour
With hairy legs alert on each it's thread
Awaits; sometimes a windy storm would roar,
When webs like battered sails are torned to shred.
But back it comes to weave within the hour
A place to ply for preys flying ahead.