The one eyed two legged spider
A soldier was injured still carries on

The one eyed two legged spider
There once lived a spider with eight little legs,
And plenty of eyes that could see,
He lived in the corner behind an old clock,
As happy as happy could be.
He marched round the ceiling and danced down the wall,
He thought he was terribly tough,
He frightened the flies and he chased all the moths,
And life for the spider was enough.
Then one awful morning the hoover arrived,
From the house of the woman next door,
It swallowed him whole with his cobweb and lunch,
Then battered him round on the floor.
He came flying out looking worse for the wear,
With six of his legs broken through,
And somewhere inside that ridiculous hoover,
He left nearly every eye too.
One eye and two legs were all that remained,
But spider was not going down,
He dragged himself home to his corner again,
Like a soldier returning to town.
He tried making webs like he used to before,
But things were no longer the same,
They looked like old cotton just hanging about,
But nobody laughed at his game.
He stretched his two legs and he pulled at the thread,
Determined to weave it somehow,
It twisted and dangled and stuck to the clock,
But look at the little sod now.
He runs round the ceiling on two little legs,
Much faster than spiders with eight,
He waves at the flies with his one little eye,
Then sits by the cobweb to wait.
His one eye is crooked and sometimes looks left,
When really he wants to look right,
But although his one eye can sometimes deceive him,
He still knows his daytime from night.
He carries the wounds of the battles gone by,
But never complains about pain,
For six missing legs and a handful of eyes,
Won’t stop him from weaving again.
His cobweb is wonky and nothing looks straight,
It dangles like washing on string,
But spider just looks at the mess he has made,
And thinks it’s a beautiful thing.
So there he still lives with one eye and two legs,
Still weaving his cotton with pride,
For you don’t need eight legs to carry on living,
When stubbornness lives deep inside.

About the Creator
♿ V+ Marie381Uk
Poetry has lived in me since childhood.
Ink spills the feelings words fear to say.
My poems heal, some haunt, all are pieces of me.
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