Dear Itsy Bitsy, let me pose
A question wrapped in rhythmic prose.
Why, I wonder, did you appear?
With eight little legs, drawing near?

Was there not enough to eat?
In your army’s march, a missed treat?
Did they forget the supplies to bring?
While you roamed in search of a nibbling fling?

In the heat, the night felt thick and bound,
Hungry for joy, you scuttled around.
And while you thought a feast was due,
You left me a present, that much is true.

But Mr. Itsy, I must confess,
My skin’s not yours for your little quest.
Not a buffet, nor an appetizer,
It’s my body, not yours to mesmerize.

So next time you roam in the night,
Remember, dear spider, to stay out of sight.
For this skin, I treasure, and it’s quite clear,
It’s not yours to munch on, so kindly adhere.