Backstroke with eight legs,
Floating at the top of kegs,
Giant wooden barrels, steel rings,
Fermenting cider - a marvellous thing,
Gallons and gallons enjoyed in secret,
An arachnid militias quite elite,
They tip-toe across the beams,
Quieter than a mouse, it seems,
Sneak in through the cracks,
They are tiny, no need for an axe,
If you hear miniature Hic-ups,
Do your best not to look up,
Because after a swim in the cider,
That may just be one drunk spider.
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@naaviie
23, Vegetarian, (insanely busy) Vet student pondering about love, life and dragons.
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Comments & Feedback (9)
@MelchiorJ13 @misslittleDHP @leelee101 😄😄😄 thank you lovely people, inspired by a visit to the cider factory yesterday! 😘😘
I think you may have just put me off cider, the thought of a spider swimming round... Possibly loosing a leg. Bleh. Great poem though 😘😝😊💟
@Odd - eeewwww I know! or just dying in there 😳 don't worry, the cider is covered... But that's why I thought of this! 😱
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