Spider, spider, on the ceiling,
giving me that creeping feeling.

You were meant to be outside,
in dark places, where you hide.

Spinning silken thread, all day,
a patient wait to snare your prey.

With web vibrations you dispatch,
wrapping up your wretched catch.

Liquified to chitinous swill,
slurping up your six-legged kill.

It’s not safe, where you tread,
catch my roommate’s gaze, you’re dead.

Climb upon my outstretched hand,
I’ll put you back out on the land.

The price of freedom’s not so steep,
from my garden, the bugs you’ll keep.

My ruthless garden Queen, you’ll rule,
over all the winged fool.

Until the cold of autumn’s rain,
then my ceiling, you’ll cross again.