Itchy and Scratchy and Bitey all Nighty
While sleeping a bit, a bug bugged me a bit
and I woke when the buggy bug bit me a bit.
The bite itched a bit, so I scratched it a bit,
but scratching the itch also bugged it a bit.
The scratch bugged a bit ’cause the scratch itched a bit
but I didn’t dare scratch any more at that patch
or I might scratch the scratch which would bug me a bit
and might itch a bit more—I feared that was in store.
And then, for a bit, sound asleep without hitch
but so itchy and scratchy and all-over patchy
I woke and I scratched all my patches of scratches—
the itches in niches, in singles and batches.
The bug found my ear and it buzzled, “I’m here!”
having bit my derrière then returning from there
where it bugged me anew—I knew not what to do!
It didn’t seem fair as it crawled through my hair
taking bits of new bites, unrestrained appetites,
all my tasty hors d’oeuvres jangling ever more nerves
till exhausted at last, when my eyes closed a bit,
I slept while it crept where it laid a new nit—
but while sleeping it hatched and it bugged me a bit.