1

What makes you, Tick? Ixodes damn thee!

Your place is in the lowest class.
Your point of view is very crass.
You wait amidst the tall, wet grass
To waylay some warm lad or lass.

Nature can be awf’ly cruel;
Survival of the fit’s her rule.
Awake! To Her you’re just a tool.
She uses you like any fool.

You take my blood to raise your brood,
But with your taste you spoil your food,
And let some hidden thing -- no good--
Destroy your host if it but could.

2

What made you this blood-thirsty critter?
Once you grab hold you are no quitter,

But silent, painless, take your meal,
And with a touch too deft to feel

Reward me with a spirochete
That grows and spreads from head to feet

And wracks me with such pain and fear
It makes me think that death is near.

3
Before the human brain was formed
Your kind evolved, improved, and swarmed.
And in a climate wet and warmed
You left us weakened and deformed.

But now, despite intimidation,
You face a race of higher station,
Which studies you with irritation,
And plans an end to your predation.

To underestimate your skill
At changing and adapting still
Would be a great mistake. We will
Attempt only to tame, not kill.

But tame we will, and on that day,
Your kind and mine will once more play
In fields and woods each in our way
And I will never have to say

What makes you, Tick? Ixodes damn thee!