Evolution: Birth of Medusa

From a worm, wiggling in the bed of the Med,

to a sperm, banging my head on an egg.

Behold the evolved: a sperm with a perm.

Angry at life, what a fight for my right yet

not lying dead with the rest but the next.

Long curls at my birth, a mop on my top,

there’s some debate: It just isn’t straight.

A cheer, and some tears, and then sneers.

Their fear is clear, two sticks quickly click.

It is licked.  A woollen bonnet lies upon it.

With a flick and a nip the curls are on it,

sentient dreads shred the pestilent threads.

Their hand-made fleece is in pieces

but there are no moans; they are stone.

All dead, standing at the bed of their Med.

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