I am waiting for my Spider
As they all go sliding past
With their glossy metal skins
That reflect the 3:00 sun in my eyes.

I am waiting for my Spider
On a wall that is no more,
Sitting there, just waiting
For my Spider to trundle up.
I will recognize it by its hoarse voice, I am sure.

I am waiting for my Spider
As they all skitter by,
All different shades of red and blue and green,
A thousand vibrant Spider colors.
But the Spider I wait for
Is plain old white.

Spiders, different Spiders
Rushing by on rubber feet,
Spinning oily webs behind them
That cloud the world.

Industrious Spiders, I daresay,
Things to do, places to go,
Powered by the amber juices
Of the prey they have consumed.

I am waiting for my Spider,
Just waiting,
And when it comes I will step in,
Sit down,
And be swallowed by the Spider
As it turns and drives away.


This entire poem is an extended metaphor, really. I think it's pretty easy to get. If for some reason you're entirely stumped, email me, and I will explain the metaphor. Really, I will. Unlike some webpage people, I actually answer my mail.

This piece of web madness created, implemented and maintained by Napoleon.
I like getting mail. Hint, hint.