Three Bugs

Three little bugs in a basket,

And hardly room for two!

And one was yellow, and one was black,

And one like me, or you.

The space was small, no doubt, for all;

But what should three  bugs do?

Three little bugs in a basket,

And the beds but two would hold;

So they all three fell to quarreling—

white, and black, and the gold;

And two of the bugs got under the rugs,

And one  was out in the cold!

So he that was left in the basket,

Without a crumb to chew,

Or a thread to wrap himself withal,

When the wind across him blew,

Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,

And so the quarrel grew!

And so there was war  in the basket,

All, pity, 'tis, 'tis true!

But he that was frozen and starved at last

A strength from his weakness drew,

And pulled the rugs from both  of the bugs,

And killed and ate  them, too!

Now, when bugs live in a basket,

Though more than it well can hold,

It seems to me they had better agree—

The white, and the black, and the gold—

And share what comes of the beds and crumbs,

And leave no bug in the cold!

Alice Cary