Don ’ t Dally with the Scuttle-Bug By Ella Barfoot
that chatters its legs under the moon-wet sky , and squirms its way towards you , a damp grey curve of chitin escaped from the washing machine . It has fled from the suds to tack its wiry legs onto your flesh , to purr into your ears and whittle you into bone ; it has come from the crannies to drag you back , to chain you to the bedpost , to feed you to its father . Hear it , and hurry , before the soil spits up around you , and you are beaten by its ticking wings , and are fed cigarette butts and mould and gum – hurry , and flee onto pavements , flag down a bus , you a poem forced from its scuttling legs .