Mother Mosquito
We know her as a pest,
And most agree it's best
To mash her to a bloody pulp
Before she takes her final gulp.
And how we hate to hear
Her scolding in our ear;
But let us hear her out
As she has her say about
What we crudely call "the bite"
She takes of us at night.
She finds it unfeeling
To charge her with stealing.
I mean, we're her flowers
In the warm summer hours,
And what flower feels as we
Of its butterfly or bee?
And who's getting rich?
Look at the poor ugly witch
In the moon as she drones:
She's nothing but bones.
And if you care to inspect her
When she's full of your nectar,
One drop—not even that!—
One droplet and she's fat,
And that goes to the batch
Of eggs she'll lay to hatch
In standing swampy waters
Her wriggler sons and daughters.
She's not a bandito!
She's mother mosquito,
A hard-working mother—
While that deadbeat or other
She'd happened to marry
Is a dew-sipping fairy.
And she'd like to make it plain:
It pains her to cause pain,
And the itch we come to feel
Once we raise the welt or weal
Where she'd lit so light and small
And left no mark at all!
Though it's not her fate to mate us,
To rove and pollinate us,
I ask for her in rhyme
What constitutes her crime?
Why should we kill and curse
Our loyal blood-drive nurse,
Who is also the relation
Requesting our donation?
Can we ever, you and I,
See her eye to compound eye?
And find in her and not the dove
The closest Nature as comes to love?
Then drink a toast to what must be
Of rum and blood respectively?
She asks we mend our age-old rift
And deem at last her theft a gift.
O mother mosquito! Mother mosquito!
If only she knew what she was incognito:
An international flight
For the malaria parasite,
That she traffics in the virus
And spreads encephalitis,
And all sorts of microbial scum—
And God knows what's to come.
And her thoughts aren't worth a penny,
Or we'd radio those antennae
Atop her hideous head
To tell her when we're bled
All the trouble that she causes
Is in our gains and not our losses.