Spiders

The living thing that I love to hate

Is a creature with legs that number eight.

It lurks, it hides in shady spots

Beneath damp towels, in flower pots.

When unsuspecting, sweet little me

Sings about the house so merrily

This creature laughs to himself, a leg pops out,

Then 2, 3, 4 from beneath a door.

My hum morphs into a scream.

And boot and broom become a team.

Then a sigh, a tear, a slow calm walk.

Straight to the freezer for a bowl of ice cream.