The garden spider makes her web
She spins and weaves a silver thread
A small frail woman with delicate hands
Creates a pattern of golden strands
The moon shines down an eerie beam
The garden spider it would seem
Ignored the moon's friendly smile
For her silver satin golden pile
She works constantly through the night
Her dew drop palace must be just right
To appear before the lightening skies
To catch her breakfast, unwary flies
The garden queen sits on her throne
What a pity it wasn't human prone
With one quick swipe and little pain
The hand of a youth ends her reign.
