What's it like to be a bug, in a world so vast and cruel?
To be so small, where trees are tall, and mighty giants rule?
With many legs they scamper, and their wings may let them fly,
While often underfoot, or wheel, as things go swiftly by,
To be squashed or swatted, and even sprayed with lighter fuel.

What's it like to be a bug? I ask with sincerity,
As by degrees, they've evolved quite complex societies.
Just look at ant-built complexes in teeming colonies
With uniformity and hierarchal qualities,
And, if you please, remember all those beehives in the trees.

What's it like to be a bug, who lives right beneath our feet?
So often, they remain unknown, while living lives complete,
Like: dust mites, spiders, ticks and tiny ants, or even fleas.
They're small, and hide. Some have tried to bite our extremities.
They share our world's resources, there, for which we all compete.

What's it like to be a bug, at the bottom of the chain?
They struggle for survival, in this hostile world's terrain.
Then again, they seem so alien. Not like us at all.
Do they have thoughts and dreams, as they may fly about and crawl?
I wonder at the complexity of an insect's brain.

Yet, here they are, by the millions, for all their insect worth.
Their tiny forms and numbers hold no population dearth!
Be they bees, fleas, or slimy slugs, the planet's full of bugs.
So adaptable to the ways and malaise of human thugs,
That after we've destroyed ourselves, they may inherit earth.