Oh, tiny spider, junior to a fly,
Marooned within the confines of the screen
Of my computer - what, pray, was the why
That brought you where you never should have been?
Three hours at least you circled round and round
The edge that marked my monitor's extent,
And all the while you laboured in profound
Despair of making good your set intent
To find firm landing on familiar ground.
But when you ventured to the topmost rim
Your legs, a semaphore of hopelessness,
Brought home to me your situation grim
And prompted in me pangs of tenderness.
So then I took you down and set you free
With relish in the change you wrought in me.
I felt revulsion deep within abate
Though yet the total of your legs was eight.
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