T’was two weeks ago, the house
was dusted from morning till night,
the cobwebs are back, their maker’s
wobbly legs scurrying out of sight.
If left unattended, like flimsy weeds
grey and unbroken, they sprout,
trailing down the wall and ceiling,
round the curtains, a spidery routh.
Gleaming in the sun, a magical riot
in the attic, a gloomy spectre,
relatives came to stay, decided to go
Dracula’s abode was a better idea.
The vacuum makes a sweep and
the cobwebs are gone,
legs and all, mysteriously follow
without a sound.
Two weeks more and the battle
between man and arachnid begins,
but there's less hassle and bother
with the invention of modern machines.
