What a long string of nope you are,

How dangerous you look, though naturalists assure us

That you pose no harm - yet your predecessor once deigned

To tempt our foremother with a forbidden apple.

Now you slither across the floor, a creeping piece of string,

Heightening our fears, turning unease into full-blown fright.

We flee in terror before the string of nope -

On a rope.

Eight legs of nope, and we run from you,

As you weave your web of dread.

From there, you spin into a bundle,

Draining the innards of your prey.

"Oh God," we cry, as we strike with a newspaper

Or whatever object is nearest,

Desperate to rid ourselves of your spidery sight,

Despite your usefulness in keeping pests at bay.

Pests that pester us - nagging, begging for spare change

As we hurry past, avoiding foul odors and wild stares,

Fearing they might strike with the nearest blunt object,

Like a shark lurking beneath the water, waiting to ensnare.

Though nature insists you are harmless to humans,

Your menacing, cold, dead eyes suggest otherwise.

We are wise to nope - fear, after all,

Has kept us alive.

And so, when faced with the thing that makes us say NOPE,

We burn down the house -

To rid ourselves of that which makes us go NOPE!