The eighth plague
By C.S. Scotkin
I go not to my porch
I’d like to take a torch
that would clear the air of these no-see-ums.
These pesky flying lice,
twenty on a grain of rice,
they come in through intact screens, torture all.
You cannot see them there
hanging in the air
until you take a breath, you inhale them!
They get under your clothes,
they will zoom up your nose.
Mother Nature’s playing Moses today.
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