I’ve got to stop eating
Caterpillars for lunch.
They keep loitering on my lettuce;
Skulking in my sprouts.
When I put a fork in it,
They race to the back of my mouth.
I try to spit them out,
But they parachute down my throat.
Maybe they crave
Warmer temperatures inside;
Perhaps they thrive
On acid hydrochloric.
But faster development they find,
Until ’round dinner time,
I find I can but barely speak
For the butterflies trying to escape.
©2016 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 