The Eight-Legged Legend of B.B. King

My mother said, “Don’t buy that thing ‘cause if you do, I’ll kill it.
Straight to the kitchen I will go to grab my cast iron skillet.
I’ll beat it to a putrid pulp then flush it down the toilet.
We’re here at Petco for a dog—I don’t want you to spoil it!”

 
I didn’t think she’d really mind; I thought she must be joking.
Saliva spewed out of her mouth, I swear, my mom was choking!
Her eyes, as wide as saucers now, bulged out from both their sockets.
I hung my head, as if in shame, both hands shoved in my pockets.

 
It’s just a spider after all, a cobalt blue tarantula.
Not like it’s the vilest thing or subject to anathema.
It lays around, makes little sound, while waiting for a cricket.
The perfect pet for me, you see—that spider was the ticket!

 
We got our dog–a Shih Tzu pup–my mother was so happy.
A hairy thing, but it was cute; my old man named him “Pappy.”
When everything was said and done, I sneaked back out to Petco.
I bought my Blue, (for no one knew), and loved him from the get-go.

 
I named my spider B.B. King, after the famed blues singer.
My, my, he was a pretty thing—oh, what a splendid stinger!
 I went to school, but like a fool, forgot to weight the lid.
B.B. got out, he ate the dog; my luck had hit the skids.

 
Five empty cans of RAID bug spray lay on my bedroom floor.
Poor B.B. King was all curled up—he’d ceased to be. No more!
“He’s done for, boy,” Mom said with joy, her eyes now gleaming red.
“That horrid thing you sneaked and bought has killed poor Pappy dead.”

 
“Just wait until your Dad gets home, sit down while you still can.
When he gets through punishing you I'm afraid you’ll have to stand.”
I buried B.B. in our yard ‘neath Autumn’s trees, aflame.
And to this day, it’s there he lay—it’s such a dog gone shame.