The six-legged fiddler hiding in
my garden plays his violin
incessantly – a monotone
like chalk on blackboard, grating, bleak,
bewailing that he’s all alone;
worse than a rogue mosquito’s vroom
at 2 am in a darkened room.
Why does he chirp so loud? To draw
attention, to attract a mate?
Why must he do it quite so late
and make such a discordant shriek?
Now’s not the time for loud amor!
How can I get to sleep? I curse
but then it stops, and that is worse:
what’s happened to the little chap
Has he been caught by cat, or bird?
Did he decide it’s time to nap,
pack up his fiddle till next week?
Sleep still won’t come – this is absurd:
to curse him in a fit of pique
then worry about him, when not heard.