There, squashed on the windshield,
Obscuring the view of
The road up ahead,
Of the road up ahead.
They are annoying,
And quite tenacious,
Even though they are dead,
Even though they are dead.

They appear out of the dark
My car is where they will rest,
And bugs who died in the path the highway
Shall have their redress.
For if you turn
On windshield wipers,
The grime,
The mess!

Bugs
In your multitudes,
Scarce to be counted,
Filling the windshield
With little brown smears.
You are the irritants
Drivers must face,
Keeping vision unclear,
Keeping vision unclear.

You know your place on the glass,
You hold your spot and your aim,
And each through the seasons
Dries up and gets stuck
And is always the same.
And sometimes you will not come off
Even in rain!

And so they will stay, for so they are plastered
On windshields of motorcars
Of those who travel and those who drive
Along too far!

Lord, let me clean them--
When I remove them
I will be smug.
I will never rest
Till then
This is swear,
This I swear by the bugs!