[John Whitworth]

A little bit of trochaic tetrameter:

Valedictory

When your picnic comes in summer
Then the summer brings the hummer,
Such a bright and breezy fellow
In his suit of black and yellow.

He’s a wasp and it is gospel
Any self-respecting wasp’ll
Write himself an invitation
To your summer delectation.

He’s an instant panic bringer
With his nasty little stinger.
How he irritates and wearies,
But how brief his gay career is.

For a teaspoon or a paper
Serves to terminate his caper.
It’s no more than a hiatus
From his birth to his quietus.

[Roger Slater]

ODE TO A FLY

Among the creatures I despise
are many, friend, but not you.
I have no argument with flies.
Yet soon, my friend, I'll swat you.

Please know, this is not personal.
It's just a nasty habit.
Someone leaves the swatter out,
distractedly I grab it,

I raise my hand and flick my wrist
and smack the windowpane.
And then, poor fly, you don't exist,
except for one small stain.

You're born, you spread your wings, you buzz,
you're zippin' and you're zoomin',
as fine a fly as ever was.
Forgive me. I'm a human.

[FOsen]

ODE TO AN AILING NEWT

Ah, here's a sad epiphany—
You, in a box marked Tiffany.

Frank

[John Whitworth]

Sometimes the men in suits
Keep newts.
The Mayor of London did.

Who was this King of Men?
Red Ken,
Not Sam or Bert or Sid.