With Apologies to Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lively as a flea.
A flea whose hungry mouth is prest
Against my sweet dog's furry breast.
A flea that seeks out heat all day,
And hops with frin-ged limbs to play.
A flea that may all summer wear
A brood of eggs dropt everywhere.
Upon whose bosom fur has lain
Who intimately lives through drain.
Poems are made by fools like me.
But Nothing can jump like a flea.