The flutter, apple brown, invites
a certain scientific approach
we just ain’t nailed down yet.
We bamboozle these little peacherinos
by dispersing infertile mates, some
of whom in turn will flimflam the dickens
out of prospective progenitors.
Every unpleasant bug deserves his day
with the bunco artist rendition
of himself. Why shouldn’t it end there?
The barbarous insect ultimately
brought down with federal grants
and pheromones. But always
another invader tends to come. Just ask
the avocado commission.
Just ask the woodbine to show you
where the varmints hide,
waiting to punk you in the plums.