The Spider and The Spout

There lived a little spider

Inside a little spout

And when the spout would open

The water flushed him out. 

One day the spider thought

Of his peril he had tired. 

So before the spout next opened,

A plan he had conspired. 

He weaved a web so mightily

That none could see right through it

Within the spout, so tightly

And he thought, “that should do it.”

When next the spout did open,

The water rushed toward the web,

Which caught it in its nest,

Where the water would ebb. 

The water pushed and pushed,

But the web was so strong. 

The water pooled inside it,

But it didn’t stay for long. 

Soon the web was soaked,

And water seeped on through. 

The spider kept on weaving—

That’s all he knew to do. 

Drops of water dripped 

Through the web, thick and wet. 

The spider dodged these drops

As he tried to patch the threat. 

He weaved and weaved and heaved

But still the water dripped—

Not flooded like it had,

But not following the script. 

The spider now had tired

Of weaving and being wet. 

He thought, “I’d be much drier

And far less upset

If I had just let the spout

Open like it always does.”

But how was he to know

Water’s stronger than his web was?

The spider left the spout,

Still dripping endlessly. 

He looked to move without,

Which saddened him tremendously. 

Perhaps he could have lived

With the spout’s daily purge. 

But now its constant drip

Sent him to the verge. 

With nowhere to go 

And no home to return to,

The spider sat and sobbed,

Filled with fear and concern, too.