He arrives late for the party
Dressed in his red garb
He is a rippling sensation
Amongst the huntsmen
Tickling with their barbs
When he casually asserts
His trunk of the family tree
The common gardener shrugs
And the widows move in
Everyone wants a piece of him
And they will have it by rights
The mob fall upon him
Tarantula pull his hair
Trapdoor suck the eyes
Jumper tease out his thorax
The recluses shake confusedly
As the stately funnel webs
Smoke his legs like cigars
In wanting to belong
His belongings - all he was
Gone
