The poem scribbled under the watercolour painting reads:
Insect or bat
upside down,
its weightless chic
the talk of the town,
possible jackhammer,
needle of sickness,
odd in something
that has no thickness.
The creature hangs around
like a locket,
small enough
to put in your pocket
When will we know
who it's right to fear?
the distant foe
or the one right here?
