The Lord God Made Them All

The Teacher of my prim’ry school,
Had a class terrarium –
I used to think it far more cool
Than an dull aquarium.
What was in it ?  It wasn’t ants,
Or butterflies, or bees,
Nor stick-insects on potted plants,
Or circus-ready fleas.
Woodlice would be far too small,
But these were large as brooches –
And the Head had ruled out, I recall,
Tarantulas or roaches.
I do remember chirping,
But I don’t think they were crickets –
Rather, they were something lurking,
In their tank of wood-chip thickets.
Very shiny black, they were,
And safe for us to handle –
The kind of pet the schools prefer,
That wouldn’t cause a scandal.
Ah yes, they were bess beetles !
And the best beetles around.
They were so pretty, yet discreet,
When burrowed in the ground.
They lived their lives on rotting wood,
With their not-so-many grubs,
Which they cared for like a parent should –
By giving belly rubs.
And they’d recycle wood, as well
And clean the forest floor –
Whenever they were low, it fell to me
To give them more.
The Vicar, when he came to school,
Just loved to point them out –
He found they were a useful tool
To help us be devout.
Even the fathers got involved,
As their kids reached adulthood –
It seemed these insects somehow solved
The trick to being good.
These were godly creatures, he would say,
 Almost Confucian –
He never mentioned how they came that way
Through evolution.
Or how they’d eat their excrement, their frass,
To redigest.
That wasn’t the sort of thing for class !,
And wouldn’t be on the test…
Me, I loved to handle them,
They never bit or scampered.
Even their young I couldn’t condemn –
Those maggots plump and pampered.
And they even sang to them, soft squeaks,
And lived a year or two.
In insect terms, these guys were freaks,
Yet ev’ry bit as true.
Bess beetles, betsy bugs,
These patent-leather passalids –
All wrapping up their larvas snug,
To help pupate their kids.
Industrious, yet safe and pure,
In their tight-knit family –
There’s a metaphor in there, I’m sure,
But it was lost on me.