To the spider:

High in the sky.

You’re a wit-man.

Spraying filament.

Come forth, transport me to the east; I yearn for life.

Travel where peaches fall, and the dirt is red.

Settle yourself in the pit of my stomach.

Let yourself be condemned to the viciousness of my gaze.

My problems got problems

Got 99, but no way to solve ‘em

Burgundy talons peel at my supple flesh.
Commit yourself, my friend. You are welcome.

Quiet user

Always irate

Never chaste

Laying waste

Like, cut and paste