It Is Chigger Season Again!

I love Summer, for the most part.  I deal with the heat better than with cold BUT with Summer comes the pesky bugs, especially the chiggers.  They seem to like the taste of me for some reason.  I’ve been using powdered sulfur as a natural repellant, and I know it helps BUT I’m still getting more chigger bites than I care to count.

 

 

I found a poem that tells it like it is. I was given permission by the author, Jerry Schieicher, to share it. You can find this and other poems written by Jerry on his page of the cowboy poetry web site.

The Chigger Blues

I ain't a'feered of snakes ner spiders, and ticks don't make me twitch.
I kin roll around nekked in a poison ivy patch and never even itch.
I ain't skeered much of lions ner tigers, or other carnivores much bigger.
The only critter that gives me the chills ... is the cold-hearted chigger.
They ain't no bigger than a dot. Most folks have never seen one.
You don't even know they bit ya', till they've already et' and gone.
And drilled yer skin with a bitin' end that's part needle and part digger.
Pound fer pound, the baddest bug around ... has got to be the chigger.
They crawl inside yer pants and socks, and creep into yer underdrawers.
And commence to have a feast, while yer doin' yer gardenin' chores.
It seems their spit dissolves yer hide, which they then consume with vigor.
Fer an arachnid version of the vampire ... I nominate the chigger.
I still got scars up 'n down my carcass that I reckon I'll bear fer years.
From clawin' at the welts they've left, from my toes up past my rear.
The itch they leave behind lasts much longer than you'd figger.
If you want to drive a man insane ... jist feed him to a chigger.
I've tried that nail polish myth, and doused myself with lotion.
But nuthin' seem to keep 'em off. There ain't no magic potion.
And steppin' out into my own back yard only seems to trigger
A fresh attack by my worst nightmare ... the man-eatin' chigger.
Most folks love the summer season, and fer most it's all good news.
Of flower gardens, fresh-mowed lawns, and backyard bar-be-cues.
But if you invite me to yer outdoor games, I'll respectfully refuse.
Cause you don't want to hear me wailin', as I sing the chigger blues.
© 2005, Jerry Schleicher
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.