It was during one hot summer’s day—the Sun—ripe—Fat—
That a droplet of sweat—fell to the grass—lifeless--dead—flat—

The sweet aura—emitting—drew me  ever close—
to a rather unsuspecting—tasty host—

Informed I have been of “tales of old”—
“Preying upon the Conscious”—is rather bold—

But the aura—emitting—so sweet—still drew me near—
No thought of Death—nor subtle fear—

For the Blood of my prey—fuel my kind—
We milk the unfortunate—time after time—

To follow the scent—so savory—I planned—
And landed—I did—upon a clammy Man—

Drinking its nectar—I became a Pig—
'Tis how we Mosquitoes become so Big—

But perhaps I tarried to Drink—too long—
For a violent wind—from the Man's Palm—

Struck me—Ripping me apart—
My very being—drifted into Dark—
This Conscious Man—too swift—too smart—
Could not have another Mosquito—
Drink from his Heart.