I picked a tick off poor, wet Levi,
Yanked it out with tufts of his hair.
Squeezed the thing so hard with my fingers
til it popped and blood sprayed everywhere.
I saw a tick crawling on the ground,
From Jake’s awful infestation.
I grabbed the hammer I had lying ‘round,
Pounded it to bloody obliteration.
But poor Bubba is his own bloodsucker,
Scratching and biting at his own skin.
A miserably itchy, raw condition,
from his misery within.
No amount of bathing nor of brushing,
No amount of costly elixir
Will take away his pain and suffering,
There exists for him no quick fixer.
I’m fearing, hoping not, that Karma is cruel
And biting Bubba instead of me—
If it is so, I’m such a fool
For murdering ticks thinking I’d be free.