The last flea of summer

'Tis the last flea of summer
Left boinging alone
All her itchy companions
Are sprayed dead and gone
No fluke of her kindred,
No rose blood is nigh,
To reflect back her scratches,
Or cause sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on my skin;
Since the scritchy are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I splatter,
Thy blood o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the stinging
Lie senseless and dead.