Bite of the Flea
You never loved an apple tree,
As much as I hate a flea;
They leap, they spring without wings,
And march to tunes that mother sings.
They hide in rugs and in stuffed chairs,
And pay no heed to anxious stares;
They infest dogs and prey on cats,
And hide in woven straw doormats.
Fleas that went to an idiot's school,
Have no time to play the fool;
But mother is a saint at war,
With all the fleas that feast on gore.
When mother takes out spray for fleas,
They see her coming on her knees;
They hide in cracks and nether parts,
Waiting till the fume departs.
Let us now make a firm vow,
Those fleas are bringing trouble now;
So mother sprayed the house with gas,
And all the fleas breathed their last.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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