Buzzing here and floating there,
No conscience, heart, nor tether.
You fill your guts on all my guts
And love this perfect weather.
You bob and weave, you little wretch
To seek your bloody booty.
Your little pin-prick savag’ry,
Your loathsome call of duty.
To squash and maim and flatten you,
‘tis all my heart’s desire.
But conquer one and ten more come
With no plans to retire.
And when I stand at heaven’s gate
My journey to unravel,
Says God, the Lord, the judge of all,
“mosquitoes were my gavel.”