They come and drown in the blue-black ink,
Or fry themselves in the light.
They pop, and drop, and flop, and hop,
Like catherine-wheels at play;
And die in pain down the back of my neck
In a most repulsive way.

There's a brown moth on the ceiling. He
Makes slow and bumpy rounds;
Then stops and sucks the whitewash off--
He must have eaten pounds.
He's only waiting for his chance
To take me unaware,
And then the brute will drop, and make
His death-bed in my hair.

Why do they do it? Why--ah! why?
The dews of night are damp,
But the place to dry one's self is not
The chimney of a lamp.
And sultriness engenders thirst,
But the best, the blue-black ink,
Cannot be satisfactory
Regarded as a drink.

They are so very many, and
I am so very few--
They are so hard to hit, and so
Elusive to pursue--
That in the garden I will wait