While you’re drinking your Pina Colada,
The poor periodic cicada,
Live a life that they owe
To pure H2O
From New England right down to Grenada
From their laying, for seventeen years
They are down there, the poor little dears.
Where pure water’s their food,
The whole ruddy brood,
I’m surprised they don’t drown in their tears.
Then, suddenly, one summer’s day
It is time that they come out to play
They’ll all break their necks
To find partners for sex
So another batch females can lay
Seventeen years they live underground
Until their own time comes around
And their zest for life peaks
For five or six weeks
While the earth with their singing resounds.
After one month or so has gone past
Each prepares to breathe his or her last
And all that remains
After all of their pains
Is a mem’ry of noise unsurpassed
This week's challenge at esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com asked for a story or poem about Sea, Holiday, Sunshine, Flowers or Barbeque. I know, I didn't exactly follow any of the words, but I did include a summer theme.