I itch and scratch
but cannot catch,
in time to watch him flee;
this ****** awful mozzy-
how he's mocking me!
I strike out hard, intending harm.
Christ! little mozzy, not my ****** arm!
Oh little mozzy, for you shall rue,
for now 'tis I
who shall be hunting you!
I grab the spray
and with it pray
to get him back.
So, now little mozzy,
it is I who shall attack.
Aha! look little dead mozzy,
I told you, you would see.
Now you are dead, mozzy, right on my floor.
Wait! what is that I hear?
Surely, mozzy, you did not bring any more?
This is a poem in dedication of my most bothersome enemy whilst living in Tanzania- the mosquito. Such was the hacov he reaped that I decided to commemorate one of the many battles.
