Earwigs! Poem by David Lewis Paget

Her Gramps had dealt in consols,
Whatever 'consols' were,
Her father was a partner in
A place - 'Chemin de Fer',
Her mother owned cosmetics and
Was worth - Well, who could tell?
So for her seventh birthday
She'd received an Oil Well.

Her uncle had invented some
New way of killing rats,
And other sundry vermin that
Infested women's hats,
He'd got himself a knighthood and
A Villa at St. Clare,
But then he'd died of scurvy
And he'd left it all to her.

She'd never tasted water,
She had only sipped on wine,
And bathed in purest asses milk
From ages six to nine,
Her clothes were hand embroidered
In a thread of woven gold,
With 'Maddie Agnes Muirhead'
Her name... so I've been told.

We knew her just as Maddie
When she married Albert Spink,
He hadn't got a bean, his
Only shirt was stained with ink,
He had to sign a pre-nup leaving
Everything to her,
Which didn't worry Albert,
He was not a connoisseur.

She only bought him beer, seven
Cans, just once a week,
And she gave him cast-off clothing,
Said he didn't have to speak,
Then she kept him in the cellar so
He wouldn't meet her friends,
He was just her bit of rough
For lonely nights, and odd weekends.

They lived out in the country where
There's snakes and bugs and things,
And Albert's job was pest control,
Kill anything with wings,
There's always plagues of centipedes
And millipedes and mice,
Of cockroaches and sugar ants,
And none of them are nice.

This year the plague was earwigs,
They got into the house,
They crawled around the cupboards,
They infested Maddie's blouse,
She screamed at him: 'Get rid of them,
They're making my flesh crawl! '
But Albert couldn't seem to find
A remedy, at all.

He sprayed and swept the bodies out,
He crushed them with his boot,
He set off bombs of pesticide
But nothing seemed to suit.
They swarmed down in the cellar where
His bed was on the floor,
They crawled into his pillowcase,
They hid behind the door.

Then one long boring Sunday when
His Maddie thought to play,
She came downstairs to frolic,
Just a gambol in the hay,
But then she fell asleep, and he
Saw dollars in his mind,
She never gave him anything,
He saw her as unkind.

Her head lay on the pillow, and
She grunted and she snored,
As Albert watched her in disgust,
He lay there, feeling bored.
But then a tiny earwig
Popped out the pillowcase,
He dropped it in her shell-like ear,
It vanished without trace.

She woke up in the morning,
Stuck her finger in her ear,
Said, 'Albert, what's that funny sound,
I feel so very queer! '
He helped her back upstairs, all disarrayed
And so uncouth,
She said, 'I hear this scratching sound,
Like rain upon the roof.'

The second day she twitched and drew
Quaint patterns in the air,
Her eyes had gone quite glassy, out of
Focus as she stared,
He placed her cheque book on her lap
A pen in her right hand,
'Just sign there on the dotted line
My love... you understand? '

She signed there on the dotted line,
He filled the total in,
A million and a half, he thought,
Would do him, to begin.
He should have phoned the doctor
Just to stop her going mad,
But thought he'd leave the little beast
To shred what brain she had.

A week went by, she seldom spoke
Lay jumbled in a heap,
He put her down the cellar, laid her
In his bed to sleep,
He always slept beside her just
In case somebody came,
He barred the door to visitors,
Then family, just the same.

One morning he woke early, she
Was lying on her back,
There was no sound of breathing
Though her jaw lay wide and slack,
A million crawling black things were
Erupting from her mouth,
Crawling out from flaring nostrils
Running out, both north and south.

Then he felt them crawling on him,
On his forehead, everywhere,
They were caught up in his beard,
And he beat them from his hair,
But he felt a pang of terror as
That sound began again,
Like a scratching in each ear
As earwigs burrowed at his brain.

6 November 2008