There is nothing quite like a mosquito stinging for her supper.
Although I travel incognito,
I can’t deceive the smart mosquito;
While others also have corpuscles,
Mine are the ones toward which she hustles;
My blood is thin and I have asthma;
She doesn’t care, she wants my plasma.
Mosquitoes seem to love the rind of me,
The front, the sides, and the behind of me;
I’ve tried to think why they’re so smitten,
And as I think, once more I’m bitten.