A melancholy poem from Bed Bug.

LORD BEDBUG

Lord Bedbug crawls upon his throne
Of spattered sheets and spotted ticking,
Where he commands the nightly pricking
That makes our vital force his own.

Ah, have you now seen Bedbug plain?
And has he used you for his feeding,
And stuffed his gut with all the bleeding
That trickled from your punctured vein?

Such is our fate. We’re only food,
The special on the midnight menu.
He picks the time; he picks the venue;
Our lot is simply servitude.

We hold no franchise in the deal,
For we’re the sheep, and he’s the shepherd.
Our counterpane is always peppered
With leavings from our master’s meal.

We pay allegiance to our lord,
For he’s the liege, and we’re the vassals.
He takes our couches for his castles;
Our beds are his, and we’re his board.