Watching a movie ('Walking Tall')
I spied a cockroach on my wall,
crawling in and out of sight,
the proud homeowner's sorry plight.
Now I see him, now I don't,
a creepy feeling, and I won't
feel better till he's dead and gone,
considering it a job well done.
The kitchen was my battleground,
I chased the bugger round and round,
('persistent' was the name I christened
my thick-skinned antagonist,)
for dodging footfalls he'd survived
the era of the dinosaurs,
avoiding conflict he'd outlived
the perils of unnumbered wars.
Tired and soaked with perspiration,
craving his elimination,
I, with magazine extended
dealt a blow, his life was ended.
Or was it? Wriggling in his death throes,
wiggling several sets of black toes,
on his back he scarce could right
himself to carry on the fight.
Yet more he fiddled, then was still,
an adversary with a will,
he lay quiescent on the rug,
that bold defiant little bug.
I left him shaken, (his demise
beyond salvation?), then my eyes
beheld no insect, just a stain,
for he'd crept off to scare again!