the spider
he, with cotton in his bottom
for the silken manufacture
dressing flies he likes to capture
in the evening wear for dinner
oh the spider, what a spinner

the wasp
he, with a pin for a sting
and the flailing arms he causes
people run like wild horses
from their summer barbecues
oh the wasp, such afternoons

the ant
he, having friends in the thousands
how the picnic blanket draws them
sandwich, pie and tart do beckon
then to mix things up in clothing
oh the ant, and their invading

the fly
he, how rude upon your food
flying round and keeping busy
right by heads when watching TV
but he sees you in slow motion
oh the fly, to him you're frozen

the bee
he, who sings to us with a buzz
the insect entrepreneur
his business of honey exporter
the only bug we tolerate
oh the bee, the peoples favourite

the flea
he, with his size evading eyes
likes to subject you to itching
then he jumps off like a coiled spring
remains impressed about the plague
oh the flea, and the ghosts they made

the beetle
he, so diverse and most numerous
not to be confused though
with John, Paul, George and Ringo
his attire often shiny black
oh the beetle, rolling scat