Ode to Mosquitos

Oh mosquitos, you tiny wretched scourge,
your tinny whining in my ear,

as I lay my head upon my pillow,
and cannot sleep.

Oh mosquitos, your proboscis pricks
my arm as I sit and drink,
a shell of kava,
under the clear, starry sky.

Oh mosquitos, the swelling starts
as my blood reacts to the saliva
that you've injected in my arm
as you drink my blood.

Oh mosquitos, I wish I could ignore
the itching, scratching, anger
that arises within my soul
and on my skin.

Oh mosquitos, *SPLAT*
while that small spurt of blood
means it's too late for me
at least I've saved others
from your blood-sucking bite.

*To my English- and poetry-inclined, I apologize for this atrocity that I'm pretending is an ode. I did some research, and decided that odes, Horatian, Pindaric, or otherwise, were hard and I was lazy.*