It arose from a discussion with friends about arachniphobia (fear of spiders) and how one (Angela) coped with spiders in her place.
Must be sung to the tune of "Little Miss Muffett."
This has been reproduced with Ange's permission.
(WARNING: NOT to be sung to your 3yo at bedtime!)
Remember
Miss Muffett
Who sat on
her tuffet
With
yoghurt, some chips and a beer?
I wonder if
Angie
Would howl
like a banshee,
If any big
spiders appear?
Though there’s
no arachnid
Which can do what Jack did
Who nimbly
jumped over the candle.
Will Ange do the same,
and flee over the flame?
There’s nothing our
Angie can’t handle!
One day
Ange was cleaning.
(Her nails
she was preening.)
She heard a
clear knock at the door.
'Twas her
neighbour Miss Glossop
Who’d come
for a gossip,
Which Ange
thought was rather a bore.
But Ange
acted rightly, and asked her politely
If she’d
like a pot of her brew.
So they sat
down and sipped,
While Miss
Glossup’s tongue tripped
Over hearsay
both ancient and new.
She spoke
of that cupboard
Of poor old
Ma Hubbard,
The Lunar
launch of a space-cow,
The fiddler so fine – a true
gifted feline,
And the mocking pooch, not
so high-brow!
And
scand’lous behaviour!
That scoop from Moravia
Was courting
a sweet china plate!
Far away
they absconded
And were nuptually bonded,
But Daddy
Dish, he was irate!
One thing we
must mention
Got Angie’s
attention:
‘Twas the
plague of large possums and mouses,
Large
spiders so hairy and lairy and scary,
That locals
were fleeing their houses!
Just then,
right on cue (just as spiders do)
A specimen
fell from above.
Miss Glossup
ran out with a scream and a shout.
(It happens
when push becomes shove.)
But Ange acted
nobly,
NOT
arachniphobe-ly
Declared
she, with firm resolution:
Any spider
she finds on her ceiling or blinds,
They shall
suffer a swift execution.
First she
picks up a cannister of something real sinister:
Her
hairspray, and targets the rogue.
It stiffens
the creature, who now looks like a feature
In Cosmo or
Girlfriend or Vogue.
The next
thing she chooses for those hairy losers
It also is quite
close to hand.
And what
could be meaner than her vacuum cleaner*
(A house
system. Dunno the brand.)
It sucks up
that beastie so quickly, at least he
Won’t know
which way’s out or is in.
Then if he
survives all those tumbles and jives
He will
find himself stuck in the bin.
Then, if he
can climb through the dust and the grime,
Even find
his way up through the system,
Can he
simply pop out through the plug-in or spout?
No! Our Angie
has way too much wisdom.
Sucked in
through the nozzle, he’s in a shemozzle
Coz Ange has
a follow-up weapon:
A spray of
Mortein sucked right through the machine
Will make
sure that come-backs can’t happen.*
And if that
aint enough, while he’s lost in the fluff
And with
chemical warfare as well,
Then Ange
she will seal it with Glad Wrap, he’ll feel it,
Going to
Spider-Heaven or Hell.
The
fearsome tarantula quails before Angela.
Daddy’s long
legs quake with dread.
The Huntsman so hairy thinks Angie’s too scary.
The redback
runs back to his shed.
The moral is
clear from this nursery rhyme here:
That bold
Angie she aint no Miss Muffett.
So spiders,
don’t dare to invade Angie’s lair
Or else you are all gonna snuff-it!
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