To A Cricket

I’d never wish death upon a soul,
Even demons with serrated kiss
Could not endure such fractured bliss,
But you, my friend, with rubbing wings
Are the epitome of their dark stings!
Through water torture I’d gladly sit
Or iron maidens made to fit.
Yet you, my friend, bastardise pain,
And each echo devours refrain,
When in a room you insidiously creep
And sing your song! Tweep! Tweep! Tweep!
Twenty thousand fucking lines
To your endless, ruthless chime!
Every second!
Every second!
Three thousand calls an hour,
Until in the corner you find I cower,
What little room you leave
When Into madness you sharply weave
That fragmented dry corse hum,
Until eventually my dawn chorus comes,
The day ahead seems deathly long,
And you, my friend, stop
Calling to your kin
And peaceful silence becomes the sin,
Oh! I’d never wish death upon a soul,
But if I find you my friend,
You won’t have such a chirpy end,
I’ll introduce you to my dragon of old
And we will see if you’re still so bold!

Poem © Phen Weston 2014