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Ode to a Louse 

Cleverly written by one of our mom's! 

Six legs with claws made to catch silky hair A specialized parasite, you don’t play fair. Surviving in warmth atop of the head A nightmare bloodsucker snug in the bed. Reproduction’s your game, 1 to 240 in weeks Your offspring, they multiply. Exponentially. EEEK. 
 
Oblivious to inconvenience you cause The havoc you raise, leaves us to pause. A dreaded letter arrives bearing words cold as ice Parents beware. Your child’s classroom has lice. You’re practically invisible, yet all plans must change To deal with you now, as if you were mange. A trip to the store to buy costly supplies A million-dollar industry built to cause your demise. 
 
The shame your host feels as phone calls are made Telling loved ones you’ve come, and to them you have strayed. Theories are made of how you were spread How you silently crawled from a head to a head. Perhaps back-to-back measuring, Grandma with kids To see who is tallest while sharing their lids. 
 
Human hosts talk together while scratching their heads Automatically moving to strip all the beds. Into the wash the laundry will go Stuffed animals, sheets, and feather pillow. The brushes, the combs, the hats and the bows All infected must shower from their heads to their toes. 
 
Those normally organic You’ve caused them to panic. They’ll put chemicals on their babies  No ifs, ands, or maybe’s. They’ll wait for ten minutes, covered in toxic brew With one aim in mind, to get rid of you. 
 
You strive to survive as you stay out of sight  The nit comb is deployed, to no one’s delight. Long luscious locks pulled thru painful tines Tired children are comforted, all will be fine. As you cling to that hair with all of your might All heads must be treated before saying good night. 
 
Those who’ve not had the experience of you Sit righteous in judgment thinking they can’t get you too. You cross all the boundaries of rich or of poor Race, party, religion you barge through the door. Blonde hair, ginger, black or brown Indifferent to color, you’ll claim it Louse Town. Good or bad hygiene, of that you care naught As long as you’re comfy. Not too cold. Not too hot. 
 
Six legs with claws made to catch silky hair A specialized parasite. Humans beware. A simple louse you were once, Super-Lice you became 1 to 240, adaptation’s your fame. You’ll keep yourself cozy in the hair of your hosts As they battle to slay you and make your life toast. 
 

Cathy Hingley April 2017