A rhyming poem about battling wasps.

I’m highly allergic to wasps and bees.
They are as dangerous for me as snakes.
Bees, wasps, hornets – I’ll kill any of these
flying close, using whatever it takes.

My back porch became home to colonies
of wasps that were building nests in two places.
I swore to slaughter them without apologies,
to bring true horror to their little faces.

Through the door to the porch into the fray
I boldly went, fly swatter in right hand,
bug spray can in my left, to make them pay
for their setting up house where they were banned.

A cloud of toxic mist engulfed the birdhouse
where the first colony’s nest was inside.
A parade of wasps hurried out. To douse
them all with more spray directly applied

was my plan … until they headed for my head.
Like a scared mouse I turned and rushed away
into the house as they circled overhead.
My first assault surely had gone astray.

As I watched, one by one the mad wasps flew
to their house’s opening, only to be
repelled by the bug spray. That’s when I knew
the battle had turned in favor of me.

The wasps soon scattered, flying out of sight.
I returned to the porch, swatter and spray
ready. Each wasp came back alone to fight.
A dose of spray rendered each wasp my prey.

As the wasp fell writhing on the porch’s floor,
I hit it hard with the swatter and then
stomped on it, killing the thing I abhor.
Times like this make us feel like Manly Men!

With this strategy of spray to first scatter,
then pick off each lone wasp, I decimated
both nests, filling the porch with wasp splatter.
The victor, I danced as I celebrated.