Three dead flies Dried with no eyes This is my pint of blood. An emaciated cricket My home is the spicket With an hourglass under my hood. I can spin you a home & a rich fabric'd tome Any ol' day or night. Your eight-legged fear Of all you hold dear Afraid of when I may bite. I build with such passion My trend less fashions But none can share the same space. Because, I am a spider God's secret reminder I'm no man's charity case.