“What if the three little pigs had been tarantulas not pigs?”

What if the three little piggies, instead,  
Were tarantulas furry, with eight legs they tread?  
No snouts, no curly tails in sight—  
Just silk-spinning spiders, brown and bright!

In the hollow of cactus, the First spun his lair,  
With threads finely woven through hot desert air.  
A house made of silk, neither sturdy nor thick—  
It shimmered and danced, but it wouldn't do the trick.

The Second, inventive, with pebbles and glue,  
She crafted a dome in the shade of a yew.  
With mandibles working and webs intertwined,  
A pebble-clad cottage of curious design.

But the Third little spider was wise and astute,  
She knew the big wolf and the danger en route.  
With patience she spun, in the roots of a tree,  
A home tough and weathered as ever could be.

Now enter the wolf, with a snarl and grin,  
Dreaming, as always, of snacks tucked within.  
He huffed and he puffed at the silk, not so tough—  
It drifted like lace and collapsed with a puff!

The pebble-web cottage was next on his list,  
He pawed and he sniffed and he blew through the mist.  
Pebbles tumbled and scattered, silk tangled in knots,  
But the wolf carried on, hot breath full of plots.

But the third house stood firm, in the cool tree’s embrace,  
The wolf stomped and he ranted, despair on his face!  
The spiders sat cozy, legs tucked with delight,  
Snuggled in safety all throughout the night.

So what if the story spun out this new way—  
Three little tarantulas, clever and gray?  
Perhaps at the end, with the wolf far behind,  
They’d invite him to tea—arachnid and kind.

For sometimes it’s silk and sometimes it’s straw,  
But heart, and a home, and respect matter more.  
In the tale of these tarantulas, bristly and neat,  
There’s always a way for old foes to meet!

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