Poetry With A Mission



...a thought provoking poetical exercise.

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Doctor Sunshine

Due to feeling rather down, some medication was required,
So I rang old Doctor Sunshine, who much happiness inspired.
“I will be right over,” he said, grabbing a humorous brew,
And then beaming very brightly, he appeared as if on cue.

Yes, the blues had settled on me, and were cruelly pressing down,
Thus my laughter lines and wrinkles had converted to a frown.
My chin was on the table, and I had little zing and zoom,
Until Doctor Sunshine appeared, and brightness began to bloom.

He seized a jolly syringe, and jabbed me with gags, quips and puns,
Until slowly endorphins grew, sending rays out like the sun’s.
In time he had me giggling, and then laughing until I cried,
Which soon had me back to normal, and bubbling with joy inside.

He then left me a prescription for natural remedies
That would perk one’s spirits up, and that one’s ups and downs would ease.
He said to take them often, for they would act preventively,
Referring to happy thoughts — alias positivity.

Yes, good old Doctor Sunshine soon rescued me from the old blues,
For he knew instinctively that it’s mostly those thoughts we choose.
And being such a kindly fellow, he never berated me,
But simply snatched some laughter and then began his therapy.

We all need Doctor Sunshine to visit us from time to time,
Whose bag of spirit lifters gives us shots that then see us climb.
And he’s such a merry fellow who’s great fun to have around,
Especially when the blues try to hassle us and surround.

Yes, he knows how to treat the blues with his warming sunny rays,
That radiate cheerfulness and lighten up those gloomy days.
For he looks on the brighter side, sows positive energy,
And he does such so very well, for that’s his practice, you see.

By Lance Landall




2.  The World's A Dangerous Place

Yes, the world’s a dangerous place — well, I mean to say, look at Humpty Dumpty,
And not a happy ending, I must say, and who’s to blame, the brick wall or he?
And then there was Jack and Jill, who, to be honest, shouldn’t have gone up the hill,
For Jack fell down, broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after — oh, if looks could kill.

And surely you remember little Bo Peep, who, (no doubt very sheepishly),
Returned without her sheep, and who knows what happened to them — rustlers, possibly.
Should’ve had her mind on the job, some would say, but hey, it’s dangerous out there,
For look at little Miss Muffet, she didn’t know that a spider would appear!

Okay, so little Bo Peep did get her sheep back, but how, isn't exactly clear.

By Lance Landall




3.  Every Day A Happy Day

I wish I could inject folk full of sunshine, they ablaze with warmth and beaming from head to toe,
Their yellow rays falling on their fellowman, the world full of “Howdy Do’s” or a bright “Hello.”
And then, I would follow such up with happy gas, a cocktail of cherry thoughts and wholesome mirth,
Everybody as bubbly as a fizzy drink, babies giggling from the moment mum gave birth.

Oh, what joy, not a frown to be seen, grouchy puddles having evaporated, tear drops too,
Everyone chatty, they smiling, whistling or humming, and as sprightly as a chimp in a zoo.
And should there be a lull, out with that needle again, happy gas following hot on its heels,
The world back on the road to recovery, it full of laughter, warm fuzzies, delighted squeals.

And then, out with my brush and shovel, unpleasant outbursts, arguments, moods and scowls swept away,
I hosing any lingering grumpy residue, and finishing things off with a sweet spray.
The latter filling everyone’s nostrils with a refreshing bouquet, a feeling that all’s okay,
Grey clouds having disappeared, and thereby, one’s outlook having cleared, and every day a happy day.

By Lance Landall


4.  What Can One Say About A Daughter?

Yes, what can one say about a daughter? — for girls aren’t the same as boys, oh no,
But very, very different, which any parent who has had both will know.
And the older they get, the more this fact proves true, all why I’m scratching my head,
And being cautious, for its been said, “Men are apt to go where angels fear to tread.”

Therefore, I’d better play it safe, like one does when entering a daughter’s room,
Though let me state that I’m not trying to discourage any prospective groom.
But if it’s not stray high heel shoes lying in wait, it’s that nose tickling perfume,
And certain things that are best kept out of sight, of which I’ll leave you to presume.

I guess you realise I’m jesting somewhat, for a daughter’s really quite something,
So long as you don’t mind waiting for her to get off the phone when there’s a ring.
Oh dear, how daughters love to chat, and chat, and when it comes to having a shower,
Well, if it weren’t for parental intervention, what might it be, half an hour?

Okay, perhaps I’m stretching things a little, but all to give you some idea,
For if a married man, and there’s a power cut, a daughter might soon appear.
And then you’ll see what I mean, you possibly having to wash and groom her car,
And as for all that water over the bathroom floor — well, one hardly says “Ta.”

And hence my question: What can one say about a daughter-cum-that birthday girl?
Who, should a poor father be lucky enough, might marry some notable earl.
But hey, so long as she’s happily married, though a dowry would be quite nice,
And he left to deal with those things I’ve mentioned, and perhaps spiders, moths and mice.

Yes, I no longer having to knock on the bathroom door, nor mop the wet floor,
Or wash that mud splattered object that soon reveals a car that one’s seen before.
And as for that room — well, there’d no longer be need for caution, and finally,
One would be able to see to vacuum, and those dusty shelves soon wouldn’t be!

By Lance Landall




5.  I Wonder

I wonder why I’m different? Could it be because I’m me?
Could you be different also, given that you’re you, and not me?
And now that I’ve thought of it, could others be different too?
Or is it only me that’s me, and only you that is you?

Could we all be different — I mean, each one of us unique?
Or do you think that in saying so, I’ve really got a cheek?
Though surely if I can’t be you, and if you cannot be me,
It only stands to reason that no one else the same could be.

Hang on. Perhaps there're exceptions to what (here) appears to be.
Yes, maybe there is someone out there who’s the same as you and me,
Or maybe it’s just you, or maybe I, who isn't unique;
I wonder what we'd find if you and I were to go and seek?

Now, if we found another me, or we found another you,
Would I in fact still be me, and would you in fact still be you?
For after all, if there was another one of you or me,
We surely couldn't be considered as uniquely you or me.

No, I really don't like the thought of there being another me,
And as far as another you goes — is that what you'd want to see?
It's hard enough trying to figure one’s self out, quite frankly,
Without there being another you or me to figure out, dear me!

By Lance Landall




6.  A Little Tip

Don’t come between a cell phone and its owner; seems you’re treading on sacred ground,
For should they be texting, scanning the web, or listening to its tinny sound,
Your interruption, even very presence, could see you deemed an enemy,
And as a result, you stared at, glared at, ignored or admonished severely.

Some say it’s a modern marvel, others nothing but a curse — I one of them —
It oft assaulting mealtimes and conversations — but hey, mind you don’t condemn.
For it appears that it has oft become a part of someone’s anatomy,
And were it removed from them, oh my, how they’d be deprived emotionally.

By Lance Landall


7.  Dear Aunty May

My dear Aunty May — we’re having a wonderful holiday,
We’ve not had a drop of rain, nor heard thunder-claps since yesterday.
We’re never short of fresh water — in fact, it’s up to our knees,
And we’re not being battered by wind, as it’s now dropped to a breeze.

Our food supply seems endless, it just keeps going around,
Probably due to the water circling knee-high off the ground.
We’ve clambered up a hill-side, found a rustic little hut,
That from a scenic viewpoint, miraculously seems to jut.

We’re itching with excitement, though that’s more to do with fleas,
And the air’s so refreshing in-between each hearty sneeze.
We’re sleeping beneath the stars as the roof has bid farewell,
And our thin summer blankets are helping keep out the chill.

Our car is nice and handy, we can just make out its roof,
The seats we’ve just had treated — we’re so glad they’re waterproof.
Our tents safely in the boot, though we’d rather have it here,
As someone else has joined us...oh, actually...it’s a bear!

I’m off back down the hill now, though sliding’s a better word,
And judging by the noises — the family, last I heard.
We’re seeing sides of nature that we’ve never seen before,
But a hill-side, on my backside, is a line that I must draw.

It’s a shame you can’t be here, for we’re having so much fun,
I warned you you’d be sorry, but a fine excuse you spun.
We’ll let you see the photos once our camera’s retrieved,
For unless those shots are seen, all our fun won’t be believed.

Oh, we may be a little late, as I wish to groom the car,
It’s smelling a little stale — I guess that’s the reservoir.
We’ll probably need a bath, and will want to head to bed,
So, don’t stay up, aunty May, we’re adventurers born and bred.

By Lance Landall




8.  I'm Baffled

People are most intriguing — yes, they completely baffle me,
For they’re so unkind to themselves, judging by the things I see.
You wouldn’t think that they would be, but the following I’ve seen,
Which has got me wondering, “Do some folk have a faulty gene?”

Oddly so, I have regularly seen both males and females
Biting their tongue and chewing on their lips, or their fingernails.
They may think such is tasty, but it’s cannibalistic!
And, I also hope and pray, rather uncharacteristic.

They regularly pinch their nerves — I wonder how that must feel? —
Or they pinch themselves somewhere else to see if things are for real.
Such must be rather painful, and it seems like abuse to me,
And surely all this pinching really isn’t necessary.

Yes, it’s so amazing what people do, like stubbing their toes,
And I have seen fingers in ears, and dare I say it — a nose!
There are better usages for fingers — licking them for one,
After you have scraped some icing off a large raspberry bun.

Some people tug on their ears, scratch their heads, and even elsewhere,
And for some reason, some beat their chest, even pull out their hair.
Some even bang their elbow, rub it raw — and say, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"
Which won’t help their elbow, nor will screwing up their face somehow.

I’ve actually seen some tearing the hairs off their legs too,
And yelping as they do so — yes, there’s a right hullabaloo.
And others cake themselves in mud, and put veggies on their face,
Or put holes in their body, and seemingly any old place.

I've seen some skinning their knees, and grazing their poor knuckles too,
Or straining their neck or back via some funny things that they do.
It’s really got me baffled, for it doesn’t make sense at all,
And nor does wearing high heels — ops! — I’ve just seen somebody sprawl.

By Lance Landall




9.  Yum, Yum

I’m so in love with vegetables which also seem to fancy me,
For together we work well repelling what acts injuriously.
But I am also in love with fruit and all those yummy nuts and grains,
For once they’re inside my body, balance, harmony and good health reigns.

Oh yes please, give me such food any day, be it cooked or dished up raw,
For such food is tailor-made for me given that I’m a herbivore.
And then when I have had my fill, I will toil in my garden as well,
For there’s nothing like a little exercise to stimulate each cell.

By Lance Landall




10.  Um….aah….

Are there ants in your jam jar, are there hippos in your bath,
Some bees in your honey pot, fat slugs all over your path?
Are there bats in your attic, giraffes in your corridors,
Jaguars in your garage, other carnivores outdoors?

Are jellyfish in your sinks, are there penguins in your fridge,
Is an elephant or two hiding ’midst your foliage?
Are there hares in your bathroom, chimps hanging from chandeliers,
Some love-birds in your bedroom, even hibernating bears?

Are there yaks in your guest room, timber wolves on your woodpile,
Swallows in your pantry, butterflies, magpies, a mouse with a smile?
Are there cats on top of doors, snakes sliding around the floors,
And hairy creepy crawlies hiding in cupboards or drawers?

Are there toads on your doorstep, wide-eyed owls in your study,
Mutton birds in your kitchen, some storks in your nursery?
Are crocodiles in your pool, baboons on your patio,
Cockatoos on your rooftop noisily shrieking, “Oh no!?”

There Are??!!!

What’s that?

Will I be visiting you?

Um….aah….

By Lance Landall




11.  Bertie


My name’s Bertie — I’m a germ — and I love mouths that aren’t clean,
Yes, those unhygienic caves where a toothbrush hasn’t been.
How I love that gunk that clings to toothy pegs after meals,
And that slowly makes those holes that a dentist prods and seals.

Yes — down with toothbrushes! — I say, for whatever would I do
If everyone brushed their teeth and gums and their big tongue too?
I'd soon be out of work with those teeth so shiny and clean,
And far more quickly so where people used floss and Listerine.

By Lance Landall




12.  Brain Strain


I just don’t know what to pen, I need some inspiration,
A generous flow, a rhythmic rhyming combination.
Though I’ve a pen and paper and desire for poetry,
I seem to have lost my creative mental energy.

Instead, I’m simply doodling and not very well at that,
And in-between, stroking a well-fed curled-up purring cat.
I’m staring out the window wishing words would come to me,
A bright idea, some witty lines, a rush of poetry.

And still I wait, impatiently, feeling more frustration,
Just wasting precious paper on some abstract creation.
I’m also wasting ink as I sit here trying to think,
Concerned that my aging mind is finally on the blink.

It’s all very well for you my little snoozing Siamese,
You’re dead to the world, lost in dreams, unless by chance I sneeze.
Poems hardly interest you, you’re just a cat, spoilt too,
You’re not a muddled poet, who, what to pen, hasn’t a clue.

By Lance Landall




13  Tomfoolery?


I’m thinking poetry, the rhyming kind, actually,
A poem where the end of each line has a sound like a C.
Or half way through a line, maybe, acting more cleverly,
And perhaps more persuasively, consequently, you see.

Tomfoolery, you say? Well…it might be, actually,
But why not a teeny bit of fun occasionally?
Like amusing poetry that’ll set the endorphins free,
Especially where someone’s feeling rather crotchety.

Such may not be scholarly, but is that necessary?
After all, it’s just a bit of fun, creativity.
Yes, it’s acting somewhat frivolously, admittedly,
But I wouldn’t exactly say it’s acting pointlessly.

Didn’t I notice a smile? There then. It’s working already,
Your lips aren’t upside down now, and a dimple I can see.
Next you’ll be laughing, and I dare say, shaking bodily,
Because of those chemicals tickling your anatomy.

So it’s just tomfoolery, huh? I don’t think so, Smiley.
Look at you. Go on, get a mirror. You’ve changed facially.
It’s like there’s a banana in your mouth, you look cheesy,
So who’s the funny one now? That’s right, blame my poetry!

By Lance Landall




14.  Skylarking


Though not bees, some folk get a “buzz” from doing certain things,
And I’ve also heard it said that someone like a “bird” sings.
Imagine that! But there’s more, for some people get “ratty,”
Or “catty,” even “clucky,” or “yap” too much, apparently.

Others “wolf” their food down, “badger” someone, “beaver” away,
And believe it or not, some “bark” orders, or “roar” all day.
I’ve also heard it said that somebody’s inclined to “crow,”
And that someone “hissed” at someone — why on earth I don’t know.

I’ve been told that some folk “hog” things, or act very “fishy,”
And that some folk get the “lions” share, which seems unfair to me.
I’ve heard some referred to as “moles,” and have even heard that some
Would love to be a “fly” on the wall — don’t ask me how come.

And that’s not all, oh no, I’ve been told that some people “purr,”
Which sounds quite romantic, and such, I suppose love could stir.
Others apparently “squeal,” but I would rather them “squeak,”
If going by the sounds of things they’re not prepared to speak.

Some people “parrot” others and “squawk,” believe it or not,
And if they’re in a hurry even break into a “trot.”
It’s all rather confusing — a mystery, if you ask me,
For it seems most creature like — peculiar, just quietly.

Say, they’re not just skylarking, are they?

By Lance Landall




15.  Showoffs


I’m looking out my window at a clever little bird,
Who’s perched upon a cable, and weather-wise, isn’t deterred.
Although the cable’s swinging, he’s still sitting there singing,
Thereby, amusement and pleasure this intrigued poet bringing.

Yes, there he perches or clings with the odd flutter of wings,
And midst his bouts of chirping, joyfully back and forth swings.
He hasn’t a fear of heights, so he’s completely at ease,
A chatty little showoff who has mastered the trapeze.

Sometimes I’ve seen him flirting with a little lady friend,
Who sooner or later, time nesting will probably spend.
And then there’ll be more chirping, more antics that’ll catch my eye,
As back and forth, up and down, more clever little showoffs fly.

He visits with his buddies seeking juicy worms to chew,
Who should they pop their head up, get a close up bird’s eye view.
Sometimes it’s like a party, given the numbers that I see
Poking their beaks in the lawn in search of something wriggly.

But all in all, it’s nice to have a pleasant diversion,
Particularly midst one’s poetical immersion.
Yes, a break from serious concentration, albeit brief,
Via little feathered showoffs providing some light relief.

By Lance Landall




16.  Food Fads

Have you ever wondered what certain folk might like to eat?
For example: If asked, would a jeweller say, “Silver beet?”
Would electricians say, “Currants,” would surgeons say, “Parsnips,”
Would a spy say, “Pecan nuts,” would a woodcarver say, “Chips?”

Would psychiatrists say, “Blueberries,” accountants say, “Beans,”
Would a painter more than likely gravitate toward greens?
Would twins say, “Pears,” would bankers say, “Cashew nuts and chickpeas,”
And would a plumber say, “Leeks,” or a photographer, “Cheese?”

Would Eskimos say, “Ice-cream,” would weightlifters say, “Raisins,”
And come to think of it, are feminists anti-mandarins?
Would rock climbers say, “Walnuts,” would courting couples say, “Dates,”
Would pool players say, “Cucumbers, dished up on green coloured plates?”

Would gardeners say, “Prunes,” would percussionists say, “Beetroot,”
Would a batsman shun vegetables in favour of fruit?
Would a goldsmith say, “Carrots,” would comedians say, “Corn,”
Would dentists say, “Candy floss” — hey, who took mushrooms off my lawn!?

By Lance Landall



17.  Clear As Mud

And “Bob’s your uncle,” they say — well, he isn’t, and that’s that,
And why tell folk with good eyesight they’re as “blind as a bat?”
Yes, these odd things folk come out with really bamboozle me,
Like, “She’ll be right,” which simply begs the question, “Who is she?”

Some say they’re “down and out,” when clearly, they’re up and about,
Or they state they were “left hanging in the air,” which I doubt.
When asking directions, some people say, “Follow your nose,”
As if one wouldn’t — unless of course, they’re “couch potatoes.”

“I feel like a fish out of water,” some cry, but how’d they know?
And I’ve heard someone shout, “He’s in the doghouse!” — pooooooor Fido.
Some say, “She’s feeling the pinch” — well, who wouldn’t, a pinch hurts,
And I’ve heard it said, “He’s on a knife edge” — boy, that disconcerts.

Some moan they’re “in a jam,” or “a pickle,” which is hardly true,
And I’ve yet to see someone who’s actually “in a stew.”
Others say, “She’s green with envy,” or that she’s “tickled pink,”
Or that “pigs might fly” — honestly, what on earth is one to think!

By Lance Landall




18.  Chuffed With Language

Language is a magic thing, something to appreciate,
Something that can captivate, motivate, and activate.
It’s the content of a speech, chat, song, lecture, debate,
The content of prose, a poem, story, news we circulate.

Yes, language is a really great way to communicate,
Abbreviate, hyphenate, punctuate, accentuate.
Or to negotiate, elaborate, extrapolate,
In fact, verbally speaking, it’s the best way to relate.

Language can also be used very badly, I must state,
To procrastinate, irritate, aggravate, fabricate.
Or to denigrate, nauseate, exasperate, deflate,
Insinuate, retaliate, intimidate, berate.

But all in all, language is something we should celebrate,
And those who use it correctly we should congratulate.
And where possible, its advantages accommodate,
Lest it deteriorate, suffer some terrible fate.

There’re many words that in one’s mind a picture will create,
Like vaccinate, renovate, luxuriate, marinate.
Or like overweight, underweight, featherweight, levitate,
Dislocate, extricate, detonate, hibernate, gyrate.

But wait! There’s more! After all, I’m trying to educate,
In the hope that the joys of language you’ll investigate.
Or that you will at least such seriously contemplate,
For the merits of doing so, I just can’t overstate.

Yes, language is exciting, so I wouldn’t hesitate,
Rather, meditate, let your creative buds germinate.
And shortly, artistic expressions will accumulate,
That your skills will elevate, and your efforts compensate.

By Lance Landall



19.  Literary Speaking

Now, when furthering our literary education,
It also pays to improve upon pronunciation.
Such an approach will greatly assist articulation,
Which is important when it comes to communication.

At the end of the day, it’s all about motivation,
Because one needs to study, apply determination.
One won’t get far by just wishing, or mere contemplation,
But rather, by application and assimilation.

Thus, I hope you’ll follow up on my recommendation,
Which inevitably leads to one’s edification,
But only where there’s preparation and cultivation,
And a genuine thirst for constructive information.

Yes, illumination’s the outcome of revelation,
And it greatly enhances creative inspiration.
It’s a fertilizer that stimulates germination,
A helping hand, that’s strengthened by careful observation.

Yes, there’s nothing like a constructive imagination,
Aided by quality literary stimulation.
For such will soon bring an intelligence escalation,
And produce many a wonderfully penned creation.

Thus, I would suggest that you begin an exploration,
Yes, a passionate literary investigation.
And given time, you may well produce your own publication,
A most likely outcome, not a mere exaggeration.

Yes, fall in love with literature, deep conversation,
Pick up a pen and paper with purpose, dedication.
Lose yourself midst worthy words, and earnest concentration,
And enjoy the buzz of literary intoxication.

By Lance Landall




20.  Kidding You

Peak-a-boo. I’m watching you. You’re reading my poetry,
And that poem of mine you’re reading is Kidding You, I see.
You’re trying to refrain from smiling, but you can’t, can you?
That’s why your cheeks are creasing, just like I wanted them to.

You’re on the second verse now. You’re quite good looking, you know.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to be cheeky, but it’s true though.
I like your smile. It’s nice, and it’s getting bigger, I see,
And let me say, how nice of you to read my poetry.

Wow! Third verse now. You’re quite a good reader, obviously,
And apparently quite partial to reading poetry.
Given I’m a poet (well, so folk tell me) I’m glad about that.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you with all this chat.

Please — continue reading, you’re doing well — forth verse, first line,
Ops, there I go again. Sorry. It’s a habit of mine.
I can’t resist when people are reading my poetry,
Especially someone nice like you — grinning now, I see.

Yes you are.

By Lance Landall



21.  Go Away!

Go away rain! I’ve had enough. It’s really depressing.
It’s not as though I’m tucked up inside convalescing.
I want to get out, get things done, go for a walk somewhere,
Not just waste all my time cooped up inside, slumped in a chair.

Yes, go away rain, and take all those sulky clouds with you,
They’ve been hanging about like they’ve nothing better to do.
They’re so dull and boring, and are covering up the sky,
So, why don’t you both disappear, clear off — go on, shoo, fly.

You’re not listening, are you, determined to have your way,
Both of you, shedding your moisture, making everything grey.
Can’t you go somewhere else? There is plenty of world, you know.
You’ve no need to remain here, you’re just making me feel low.

Can’t you see everything’s green? Go find a desert or two.
You’re just flooding my garden, and muddying things up too.
Give me sunshine any day, I’d rather have warmth than cold.
That’s right, bucket down! I might have known that you can’t be told.

By Lance Landall



22.  Flies

Could someone please tell me: What’s the purpose of a fly,
And why they won’t stop walking all over my apple pie,
Or anything else on my table that I’m about to eat,
Infecting it all with their grubby little hairy feet?

Though I wave my hands about, they insist on returning,
So, I reach for the fly swat, but do you think they’re learning?
No! Back they come again, fly after fly, zeroing in,
Seemingly unmoved by my crazed attempts to discipline.

Often they wait out of reach until I’ve sat down to eat,
And then, down they swoop, thereby making me vacate my seat.
After all, my arms aren’t that long, of which they seem aware,
Hence why they go for the yummy food that’s not quite so near.

They seem to come from nowhere — more so, when you’re eating food,
Or when you’ve put the swat away — talk about attitude!
It seems that they’ve got us sorted, and hence why I agonize,
For just when you think you’re fly free, it’s a case of, “SURPRISE!”

By Lance Landall


23.  Fleas

A flea may be very tiny, but oh dear, what trouble it can stir
Once underneath your clothing, or hidden within pussycat’s fur.
Hence all that furious scratching after they have triggered off itches,
That has one looking odd — and observers, doubled up and in stitches.

Yes, they’re little rascals, adept at causing much bother, misery,
And especially so where there’s not just one of them, but two or three.
They appear to roam in numbers, and, I might add, very silently,
Hence how they go unnoticed ’til, “Oh no, I’ve been bitten by a flea!”

Sometimes they appear in one’s bed — the cheek of it! — and there goes your sleep,
For how can one snooze when into your pajamas they stealthily creep?
Hence the wriggling and jiggling, the disordering of blankets and sheets,
All thanks to some itchy little bite that a good nights sleep defeats.

Why don’t they find a sandpit, and leave us and our pussycat alone?
And why are they crashing at our pad? Can’t they read the sign? Flea Free Zone.
Yes, they’re troublesome little rascals, and very difficult to see,
For once they’ve taken a bite of you, they seem to very quickly flee.

By Lance Landall



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