The Return of the Fleas

                                              Of blood bereft, they scuttled great lengths,

          to crouch, disguised, in nooks and clefts.

          From sandy pits did most appear

          The rest: they were already there

          Holding a vigil in their Sunday best.

          And, when their host assumed a state of rest

          A high-ranking member, from his fabric lair,

          did reach

          with restless legs into the air and performed

          a ghastly, yet moving, flea-speech.

          In short: “Graze!” – was his instruction.

          But, hark, who goes there!

          Tagging along in my underwear.

          With all your grace, I beg!

          Watch over my waist.

          For who better to thwart my tormentors

          Than a ladybird. Beautiful annihilator.

The midriff and wrists: battered.

She sits to the left of the tag