A Brutal Bugging

Just a poem I wrote last night. I apologize but its a little dark. Apparently being a happy person means you have to be a dark poet. Especially at 2:30 in the morning.


A Brutal Bugging

On a Saturday night, an ant marched through the street,
With a confident stride, purpose driving his feet.

He was a business ant, you could tell by the tie,
The briefcase in hand, the look in his eye.

He was on his way to his car down the block,
But he stumbled his steps o'er a measly old rock.

Then out from the shadows lurched an angry old bug,
Cunning as cockroaches, smooth as a slug.

With a pistol in hand, he closed in on the ant,
His legs bent and crooked, his body a slant.

With a pistol pressed into his back, the ant cried,
“Just open my briefcase, take what’s inside!”

Without even a word the bugger had grabbed it,
Found the ant’s wallet, silently nabbed it.

He gestured toward the ant’s watch on his wrist.
He surrendered the Rolex, his hand in a fist.

Then with his pistol, he slugged the ant’s head,
Turned on his heel, and left him for dead.

Then as the old cricket was crossing the ‘walk,
A set of two headlights screeched ‘round the block.

Out of control, the car slipped, rocked, and slided,
Then it and the cricket violently collided.

The car didn’t stop, but drove off ‘round the bend,
While the cricket lay bleeding, in fear of his end.

Just a few feet away, the ant regained his stance,
Looked over his shoulder, gave the cricket a glance.

The bugger was mangled, covered in mud,
Bathing in brokenness, dripping with blood.

The ant, very calmly, approached the poor cricket,
Reached to his pocket, proceeded to pick it.

Took back his wallet, his watch and his rings,
The keys to his car, the rest of his things.

“Won’t… you… help… me…?” Cricket sputtered, interrupted,
While he choked on the grey sticky gunge that erupted.

With a laugh the ant stood, and whispered “Goodnight.”
Then got into his car, and drove out of sight.

The bugger painfully drew his last breath,
Then shut his cold eyes, welcoming death.

The ant got home at a quarter to ten,
And never thought of the cricket again.