If there’s one plot the devil’s been successful at,
It’s grinding out a duplicate of itself that
Carries a fine-point needle which can burrow in
Through any layer of furry pelts or human skin,
With one objective only: to adeptly draw
Life’s sanguine drops like juice sucked through a paper straw.
This pesky, lilliputian forever hums
The song of ‘itch’ before a snoozy man’s ear drums
To turn his pleasant sleeptime (by its covert mission)
Into a long and apoplectic clapping session.