Louse

On the scalp’s soft hidden plain,
A tiny louse creeps, thin and plain—
A speck of life in nit‑filled hair,
Its six‑legged march beyond compare.

It feeds on blood, a quiet bite,
Leaving tiny marks of pinkish light,
While nits cling fast to each dark strand,
Pearl‑white eggs clutched by a steady hand.

Though scorned and scratched, the louse persists,
A stubborn guest that resists—
With comb and shampoo we wage our war,
Yet still it lingers, evermore.

In British homes, the nit‑comb’s sigh,
The nit‑picker’s watchful eye,
Recall the louse’s humble tale—
A creature small, yet won’t fail.