Over breakfast, over tea,
I can hear the scramble of electricity
It crackles in the corner ceiling
Giving me an uncomfortable feeling,
Like the house might suddenly BLOW
And they'll be nothing left to show,
Because of this electricity.
Then, when I was eyeing the roof
My dad told me the unsavoury truth
That cackling of electricity
Is no longer such a mystery.
The noise above, is wasps.
The **** things are living there
Even with the lack of air,
They fly about, invisibly
Their wings buzzing, not rhythmically,
So our house is not about to blow
And that at least, is a comfort to know.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Over breakfast, over tea,
I can hear the scramble of electricity
It crackles in the corner ceiling
Giving me an uncomfortable feeling,
Like the house might suddenly BLOW
And they'll be nothing left to show,
Because of this electricity.
Then, when I was eyeing the roof
My dad told me the unsavoury truth
That cackling of electricity
Is no longer such a mystery.
The noise above, is wasps.
The **** things are living there
Even with the lack of air,
They fly about, invisibly
Their wings buzzing, not rhythmically,
So our house is not about to blow
And that at least, is a comfort to know.
a fun little story poem about the wasps that came to stay during the summer. bbbbzzz
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