The tender thump of wings

Little bug, little bug
Get out of bed,
Go bother the neighbours
And make that bed.

Little bug, little bug
Rest your head,
And count those blessings
That you're not dead!

Little bug, little bug
Has gone to the moon
When he comes home
He can tidy his room.

Little bug, little bug
All curled up and blue
When he questions,
What to do.

poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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