I hope he's not a towel lunger.
I named him Sven
and watch him creep from my perch on the porcelain.
I almost killed him once and thought, "I can do him one better."
He has wicked legs and in memory pegs, some imaginings of master Shredder.
I have an overwhelming need
to make sure he doesn't breed.
In my house
like a mouse
I'll make him a sweater,
that silverfish go getter
Sven, my friend, my leggy trout,
YOU FREAK ME OUT! I want to shout.
And then I pout
about Sven in my head and his clout.
He eats the silverfish in my house
and thus I tell my spouse..
Wait for the shout,
when the guy with the clout
goes towel hopping
for the freakout chopping.
Therefore, I increase my humming.
"AGH! Spider, on my arm!" I splutter.
Then less flamboyently I notice. "It's a piece of moss," I mutter.
So friends who visit my house,
we house no mouse. Just Sven the louse.
Whose crime is only catching silverfish.
"I hope he never climbs my towel" my ever so fervent wish.
Which more do I dread? The spider or the silverfish?
Off with his head! Hand me a dish!
Poor Sven of the guild silver-catcher-fish.
One day I'm sure he will go squish.
Towel lunging is his passion.
I agree in my heart after a fashion.
I cannot release my ultimate dread,
of Sven going towel jumping in my head.