by Nick Gisburne
The thing you thought was gone forever... ain’t.
Your kitchen floor is heaving, black with bugs.
We’re crawling through the cracks. We’re in the paint.
A hundred thousand creepy little thugs.
We worship Dung the Deadly, cockroach king.
His followers, the faithful, as you see,
Have scuttled here on filthy feet, to bring
The finest of his foul infections, free.
We’re bigger, and we’re better, and we bite.
We’re taking this, your two-bit diner, down.
Surrender! Dung has never lost a fight.
Prepare to swim in seven shades of brown.
We saw the traps, the trails of bait, the spray.
You call that poison? Pitiful. Let’s play.
