by Anton Wills-Eve
To kill a man stone dead some shoot
A bullet straight into the cranial root.
Or, if tales of slower death are heard,
Poisons might well have been preferred.
But those tiny, flying creatures such as I,
Will always a hyperdermic method try.
Carrying in me, an unnoticed, tiny mite
Fevers, which no remedies can put right.
For I’m a member of that evil, crawling sect
Who their mortal enemies with death infect.