It’s alone on the ceiling, high over the church,
That I spend my long lonely hours,
But one day of the week the humans troop in
And the church bells ring out from the tower.
On Sundays, there are hymns and the organ is played,
When those humans come in to give praise.
There are no six days of labour for a spider like me,
No, no!! It is seven busy days.
I observe from above all those faces below,
And I listen to humans who speak,
But, whilst I, every day, thank God for my flies,
They give their thanks once a week.
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