One of those days,

Sinus headache, to kill it no ways,

Gotta let it run its course,

Till the windshield it hits,

Squashed and splattered,

For the wiper & washer to clean,

Wipers all & totally tattered…

Other days you are the bug,

What do you suppose it thinks,

Just before hitting the windshield,

“Damn those humans, they certainly are finks…”

One of those days,

Though the bug blew over the roof,

So many windshields, so little time,

Their lives gone in as little as a poof…

© ed ~ 3/29/06