The spider in the corner,

Of my dorm,

Foreigner,

Hoarder,

With web in disorder.

If I were shorter,

I’d steer clear,

And try not to vear,

Into his hunting gear.

He’s well-equipped,

Works from home,

And quite strict,

When prey roams,

Toward his crypt.

The monster,

Stands,

A stone’s throw away,

Saunters,

On silken-strands,

He’d be easy to slay,

With a magazine,

But that’s mean,

And I’d have to clean,

After.

He keeps,

His heaps,

Tidy,

And tiny,

So I’ll let him stay,

Maybe.