The ones that hurt aren't so much the ones  you think will ***** you quick and fly away.
With bold bodies and buzzing intent,
Their stingers are naught but hollow.

Even the sweet ones, stained glass window wings and beguiling antennae,
Pretty they may be, and with pollen'd feet that may for a while stick,
They fade surely with the setting sun.

The Spiders though, who weave, entrap, eat
Eight eyes painted with ardour and appendages caressing as
Your effigy is constructed;
'Tis they who stay for good
To habit the cupboards
A song misunderstood.