Joan.

She was a strong, independent young flea, starting her rough life on Friday the Thirteenth, of January in 2017. She passed away, Sunday the Fifteenth, due to a cruel and unforgiving flame.

Joan was top of the class. Her jumps were the farthest, her shell the hardest, her bites the deepest. How could someone so high be taken so soon?

Joan, your mother and I have one last story to tell.

Ahem,

The worm can turn
The worm can turn;
Haven't you heard?
When you think upon it
It seems absurd.
Worms can turn near,
Worms can turn far,
It really depends
On where they are.
Worms are turning
Everywhere.
One might be turning
In your hair.
Worms in an apple
Find turning hell:
'Cause apples are hard,
They can't turn very well.

Moose
A moose is like a bull on stilts
With a silly kind of head.
And if one of them sat on you
You'd probably be dead.

They grow to 7 feet in height,
Or something rather near,
And if you threw beer onto them
Then they would smell of beer.

Un-Vegetarian
Oh, I'm an un-vegetarian:
I love to eat real meat.
I'd rather eat a roasted lamb
Than stuff that's made of wheat.

I shape my beef as carrots,
Make chicken look like peas;
I flavor it to taste like them
To hide carnivorous needs.

Joan, we love you. Stay hopping in heaven and I hope your candle smells good.

Love, your Papa and Mama."

*bugs of all sizes wipe their tears, remembering the beautiful big they called Joan*