My heart was tickled
By the sight
He grabbed the speck
And held on tight

Busy, busy
He crawled and climbed
Hurry, hurry
Was his only line.

He stared at the speck
With vain intent
And if the spec moved,
That way he went.

His focus was damaged
By famed obsession
He could not have known
Saint Augustine’s confession.

I wonder if he even
Knows I am here.
I wonder if he knows
Death is drawing near.

Scurry, scurry
Along he goes
In his own little world
He reaps what he sows.
Silly, silly
His useless works I see.
Vanity, vanity
The tiny bug and me.