The Louse of King Street

Come closer child and I will tell

You of a creature known to dwell

On golden hairs of children’s heads

And in their combs, and on their beds.

This crawling bug made his abode,

Along your small and kingly road

Upon your street, one quiet night,

He crept---our small and regal mite.

He had his pack and camping gear

He hoped to base camp at your ear

But first he trudged along your cheek

And gazed upon your distant peak.

He grabbed your bangs and swung astride

Like Tarzan hanging from a vine

And if he fell, he knew he’d plummet

But he was keen to reach the summit

He toiled on for days and hours

You nearly drowned him with your showers

But at last he reached the top

Of your tangled, tussled, mop.

“The Louse of King Street,” he was called

He wouldn’t like you if you’re bald

But now he makes your head his home,

Until Mom finds him, with a comb.

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