When there’s a spider
Who’s sat on your wall,
And the only thing for it
Is:
An empty glass,
A neat-enough envelope,
And a trip outside
The front door.

Does it know what it’s doing there?
Is it waiting to leave?
Did it sit and watch
From a different spot
As you drank
The last drop
Of that bottle
Of Merlot?

Did it curse
TV Licensing
For sending you
Letter
After
Letter
After
Letter?

Did it not run away
Because it’s Leeds-cold outside
And conserving warmth
In this weather
Is better?
I don’t know
If it’s not something
More than that.

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