31+ Interesting And Legible Bug Poems For Kids

Bug poems for kids are a delightful way to introduce kids to a part of the insect world. These poems often highlight the fascinating aspects of bugs such as their unique colors, shapes and behaviors, which can easily capture the imagination and interest of kids as they learn about the various bugs and their traits. In addition, the poems will also offer kids opportunities to learn new vocabulary related to bugs.

Through bug poems, kids are transported into the exotic world of tiny creatures. These interesting and legible poems will intrigue curiosity in young minds, encouraging them to observe bugs in their surroundings and appreciate the presence of these small creatures. For instance, they can learn about ladybugs with their vibrant red wings or crawlies like ants marching in a line, working together tirelessly.

Overall, bug poems for kids serve as a knowledgeable and entertaining medium to educate our kids about the incredible diversity of insects. You can find our selective poems below that help encourage children to engage themselves with nature, fostering a sense of wonder and curiosity for bugs and their unique characteristics.

1, Poor George © Mike Howard

“Get me a wheelchair!” Cried the sick bug,
“For I have no legs (because I’m a slug!)
A very nice beetle all dressed in bright black,
Said “Never mind slug just jump on my back…..”

The slug (quite determined to get a free ride)
Now dumped common sense and he now dumped all pride,
He slid on the beetles back with such ease,
Said ”Take me to market as quick as you please!”

Now the beetle pretending hard to be nice,
Said “Certainly sir, there’ll be no price!”
“But first I have to visit my mum,
You can come too my little chum!”

So down it the ground where black beetles gorge,
Went poor Mr. Slug (whose name was George)
He never more was seen again…..
Pray what happened….can you explain?

2, Snug As A Bug © Grenon Sheila

Step out of your
Comfort zone
Why be alone
You will atone
Red, Brown, Black, Blue
Yellow, green, purple or Pink
Don’t be a fink, if you continue
You stink
Being snug as a bug
In a rug
You big lug
Skip that drug
Do what you can
To be a good friend
It hurts both ways
Don’t forget that, I must say.

3, How Doth the Little Busy Bee © Isaac Watts

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flow’r!
How skillfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev’ry day
Some good account at last.

4, The Teachings of a Snail © Willameena

The snail that sat upon your shoulder it whispered to you number order.
If two is three and three is two then one is five and you look blue.
“Do you not enjoy this game?” The snail looked to you as it asked in vain.
The game of numbers is one we play by seeing things most every day.
Down is up and left is right then four is eight and nine is five.
But one was five I thought you said?
“Shut your mouth or you’ll end up dead!”
The snail continued his nonsense game of numbers, words and silly things.
The root of ten is thirty four but wait, then what’s the root or thirty four?
The crooning of his awful voice’s enough to make your skull so ache.
“Wait, stop! Do set me down!” The snail cried out as you swung him round.
And off he flew into the water where a fish poked out and thanked you for supper.

5, Suicided Bug © Gamini Ekanayaka

Under Jesus’s kind smile
There is a dead body of a little bee
Turned black and broken
By the embrace of golden candle flame
What a wonder the little creature

Has found best place to be hugged by death
What a luck there’s none
To send him under soil
Away from prayers and blessings
So for sure the bee
Must be on a lighted lane

Smiling back to all woes and foes
Which hurt his little soul
In this world full of betrays and flaws.

6, The Butterfly © Margaret Rose

I know a little butterfly with tiny golden wings,
He plays among the summer flowers and up and down he swings,
He dances on their honey cups so happy all the day,
And then he spreads his tiny wings- and softly flies away.

7, The Butterfly and the Bee © William Lisle Bowles

Methought I heard a butterfly
Say to a labouring bee:
“Thou hast no colours of the sky
On painted wings like me.”

“Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
And colours bright and rare,”
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
“Are all beneath my care.

“Content I toil from morn to eve,
And scorning idleness,
To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave
The vanity of dress.”

8, Bumble-Bee © Unknown Author

Bumble-Bee superbly dressed,
In velvet, jet, and gold,
Sailed along in eager quest,
And hummed a ballad bold.

Morning-Glory clinging tight
To friendly spires of grass,
Blushing in the early light,
Looked out to see him pass.

Nectar pure as crystal lay
In her ruby cup;
Bee was very glad to stay,
Just to drink it up.

“Fairest of the flowers,” said he,
“Twas a precious boon;
May you still a Glory be,
Morning, night, and noon!”

9, Ode to the Butterfly © Thomas Wentworth Higginson

Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold,
Thou songless wanderer mid the songful birds,
With Nature’s secrets in thy tints unrolled
Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of words,
Yet dear to every child
In glad pursuit beguiled,
Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and flocks and herds!

Thou winged blossom, liberated thing,
What secret tie binds thee to other flowers,
Still held within the garden’s fostering?
Will they too soar with the completed hours,
Take flight, and be like thee
Irrevocably free,
Hovering at will o’er their parental bowers?

Or is thy luster drawn from heavenly hues,—
A sumptuous drifting fragment of the sky,
Caught when the sunset its last glance imbues
With sudden splendor, and the tree-tops high
Grasp that swift blazonry,
Then lend those tints to thee,
On thee to float a few short hours, and die?

Birds have their nests; they rear their eager young,
And flit on errands all the livelong day;
Each fieldmouse keeps the homestead whence it sprung;
But thou art Nature’s freeman,—free to stray
Unfettered through the wood,
Seeking thine airy food,
The sweetness spiced on every blossomed spray.

The garden one wide banquet spreads for thee,
O daintiest reveller of the joyous earth!
One drop of honey gives satiety;
A second draught would drug thee past all mirth.
Thy feast no orgy shows;
Thy calm eyes never close,
Thou soberest sprite to which the sun gives birth.

And yet the soul of man upon thy wings
Forever soars in aspiration; thou
His emblem of the new career that springs
When death’s arrest bids all his spirit bow.
He seeks his hope in thee
Of immortality.
Symbol of life, me with such faith endow!

10, Meadow Talk © Carolyn Leslie

A bumble-bee, yellow as gold,
Sat perched on a red-clover top,
When a grasshopper, wiry and old,
Came along with a skip and a hop.
“Good-morrow!” cried he, “Mr. Bumble-Bee!
You seem to have come to a stop.”

“We people that work,”
Said the bee with a jerk,
“Find a benefit sometimes in stopping;
Only insects like you,
Who have nothing to do,
Can keep up a perpetual hopping.”

The grasshopper paused on his way,
And thoughtfully hunched up his knees;
“Why trouble this sunshiny day,”
Quoth he, “with reflections like these?
I follow the trade for which I was made;
We all can’t be wise bumble-bees.

“There’s a time to be sad,
And a time to be glad;
A time both for working and stopping;
For men to make money,
For you to make honey,
And for me to do nothing but hopping.”

11, Calico Pie © Edward Lear

Calico Pie,
The little Birds fly
Down to the calico tree,
Their wings were blue,
And they sang ‘Tilly-loo!’
Till away they flew,–
And they never came back to me!
They never came back!
They never came back!
They never came back to me!

Calico Jam,
The little Fish swam,
Over the syllabub sea,
He took off his hat,
To the Sole and the Sprat,
And the Willeby-Wat,–
But he never came back to me!
He never came back!
He never came back!
He never came back to me!

Calico Ban,
The little Mice ran,
To be ready in time for tea,
Flippity flup,
They drank it all up,
And danced in the cup,–
But they never came back to me!
They never came back!
They never came back!
They never came back to me!

Calico Drum,
The Grasshoppers come,
The Butterfly, Beetle, and Bee,
Over the ground,
Around and around,
With a hop and a bound,–
But they never came back to me!
They never came back!
They never came back!
They never came back to me!

12, Caterpillar © Christina Rossetti

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.

13, Forgiven © A. A. Milne

I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.
I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day …
And Nanny let my beetle out –
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out –
She went and let my beetle out –
And Beetle ran away.

She said she didn’t mean it, and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,
She said that she was sorry, but it’s difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you’ve mistaken for a match.

She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn’t mind,
As there’s lots and lots of beetles which she’s certain we could find,
If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid –
And we’d get another match-box and write BEETLE on the lid.

We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,
And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,
And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:
“A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!”

It was Alexander Beetle I’m as certain as can be,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be Me,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought to say:
“I’m very very sorry that I tried to run away.”

And Nanny’s very sorry too for you-know-what-she-did,
And she’s writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,
So Nan and Me are friends, because it’s difficult to catch
An excited Alexander you’ve mistaken for a match.

14, Limerick: There was an Old Man in a Tree © Edward Lear

There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, ‘Does it buzz?’
He replied, ‘Yes, it does!’
‘It’s a regular brute of a Bee!’

15, On the Grasshopper and the Cricket © John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

16, On the Grasshopper and the Cricket © John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

17, The Butterfly © Alice Freeman Palmer

I hold you at last in my hand,
Exquisite child of the air.
Can I ever understand
How you grew to be so fair?

You came to my linden tree
To taste its delicious sweet,
I sitting here in the shadow and shine
Playing around its feet.

Now I hold you fast in my hand,
You marvelous butterfly,
Till you help me to understand
The eternal mystery.

From that creeping thing in the dust
To this shining bliss in the blue!
God give me courage to trust
I can break my chrysalis too!

18, On the Grasshopper and the Cricket © John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

19, The Daddy Long-Legs and the Fly © Edward Lear

Once Mr. Daddy Long-legs,
Dressed in brown and gray,
Walked about upon the sands
Upon a sumer’s day;
And there among the pebbles,
When the wind was rather cold,
He met with Mr. Floppy Fly,
All dressed in blue and gold.
And as it was too soon to dine,
They drank some Periwinkle-wine,
And played an hour or two, or more,
At battlecock and shuttledore.

Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs
To Mr. Floppy Fly,
‘Why do you never come to court?
I wish you’d tell me why.
All gold and shine, in dress so fine,
You’d quite delight the court.
Why do you never go at all?
I really think you ought!
And if you went, you’d see such sights!
Such rugs! Such jugs! and candle-lights!
And more than all, the King and Queen,
One in red, and one in green!’

‘O Mr. Daddy Long-legs,’
Said Mr. Floppy Fly,
‘It’s true I never go to court,
And I will tell you why.
If I had six long legs like yours,
At once I’d go to court!
But oh! I can’t, because my legs
Are so extremely short.
And I’m afraid the King and Queen
(One in red, and one in green)
Would say aloud, “You are not fit,
You Fly, to come to court a bit!”‘

‘O Mr. Daddy Long-legs,’
Said Mr. Floppy Fly,
‘I wish you’d sing one little song!
One mumbian melody!
You used to sing so awful well
In former days gone by,
But now you never sing at all;
I wish you’d tell me why:
For if you would, the silvery sound
Would please the shrimps and cockles round,
And all the crabs would gladly come
To hear you sing, “Ah, hum di Hum”!’

Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs,
‘I can never sing again!
And if you wish, I’ll tell you why,
Although it gives me pain.
For years I cannot hum a bit,
Or sing the smallest song;
And this the dreadful reason is,
My legs are grown too long!
My six long legs, all here and there,
Oppress my bosom with despair;
And if I stand, or lie, or sit,
I cannot sing one little bit!’

So Mr. Daddy Long-legs
And Mr. Floppy Fly
Sat down in silence by the sea,
And gazed upon the sky.
They said, ‘This is a dreadful thing!
The world has all gone wrong,
Since one has legs too short by half,
The other much too long!
One never more can go to court,
Because his legs have grown too short;
The other cannot sing a song,
Because his legs have grown too long!’

Then Mr. Daddy Long-legs
And Mr. Floppy Fly
Rushed downward to the foamy sea
With one sponge-taneous cry;
And there they found a little boat,
Whose sails were pink and gray;
And off they sailed among the waves,
Far, and far away.
They sailed across the silent main,
And reached the great Gromboolian plain;
And there they play for evermore
At battlecock and shuttledoor.

20, The Fly © William Blake

Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

21, The Spider and the Fly © Mary Howitt

Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.”
Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!”
Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, ” Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I ‘ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome — will you please to take a slice?”
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind Sir, that cannot be,
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you ‘re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple — there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue —
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour — but she ne’er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counselor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

22, What Does the Bee Do? © Christina Rossetti

What does the bee do?
Bring home honey.
And what does Father do?
Bring home money.
And what does Mother do?
Lay out the money.
And what does baby do?
Eat up the honey.

23, Cobwebs © Edith L. M. King

Between me and the rising sun,
This way and that the cobwebs run;
Their myriad wavering lines of light
Dance up the hill and out of sight.

There is no land possesses half
So many lines of telegraph
As those the spider-elves have spun
Between me and the rising sun.

24, “Hurt No Living Thing” © Christina Rossetti

Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

25, Bugs © Marianne Scarfe

Creepy crawlies are what l like
Worms who squirm and bugs that bite
And beetles that scurry
In the dark of the night!

And ants who march in a long, long line
And carry a crumb from the left to the right!

Slugs who move very slowly
In a trail of slippery slime
And woodlice awoken
From an upturned stone
Covered in earth and grime!

Spiders waiting in silken webs
Hoping to catch a fly
Watching the world very quietly
They pounce in the blink of an eye!

26, To A Bee © Maude Keary

Busy Bee, busy Bee, where are you going?
Down where the bluebells are budding and blowing,
There I shall find something hidden and sweet
That all little children are willing to eat!
Busy Bee, busy Bee, what will you do?
Put it into my pocket, and save it for you!

27, Tell Me Little Woodworm © Spike Milligan

Tell me little woodworm
Eating through the wood
Surely all that sawdust
Can’t do you any good.

Heavens! Little woodworm
You’ve eaten all the chairs
So that’s why poor old Grandad’s
Sitting outside on the stairs.

28, Down in the Hallow © Aileen Fisher

Down in the hollow,
Not so far away,
I saw a little ladybug
When I went to play,

Swinging on the clover
Up in the air . . .
I wonder if the ladybug
Knew I was there.

29, Snail’s Pace © Aileen Fisher

Maybe it’s so
that snails are slow.
They trudge along and tarry.

But isn’t it true
you’d slow up, too,
if you had a house to carry?

30, The Snail and the Mouse © Laura E. Richards

The snail and the mouse
Went round the house,
Running a race together;
The riders were elves,
And proud of themselves,
For neither weighed more than a feather.

The snail went crawly, creepy, crawl,
The mouse went hoppety hop, sir;
But they came to a fence
That was so immense
(Six inches!), they had to stop, sir!

31, Tom Cricket William Allingham © Anonymous

Tom Cricket he sat in his hole in the wall,
Close to the kitchen fire,
Up and down ran the Cockroaches all,
Red coats and black coats, great and small;
“Ho, Tom! our hearts are set on a ball,
And your music we desire!”
Tom sat in his hole, his horns hung out,
He play’d away on his fiddle;
The Cockroaches danced in a rabble rout,
Scrambling and scurrying all about,
Tho’ they had their own steps and figures no doubt,
Hands across, and down the middle.
Till, “Stay!” says a Fat One,—”We’re no Elves,
To dance all night without stopping!
Now for supper!” They help’d themselves,
For the servants were gone to bed; on shelves
And tables they quested by tens and twelves,
And quick to the floor kept dropping.
As a Cockroach ran by, says Tom Cricket to him,
“Fetch me up a piece of potato,
Good Sir!—to mix in the crowd I’m too slim.”
Says Jack Cockroach, “I see you are proud and prim;
To eat alone is merely your whim,—
Which I never will give way to!”
“Come down,” says he, “and look out for your share!”
“I won’t do that,” says Tom Cricket.
And when for another dance they care,
And call upon Tom for a lively air,
They find he has drawn himself back in his lair.
“How shameful,” they cry, “How wicked!”
“Let’s fill up the mouth of his cave with soot,
Because he’s behaved so badly!”
They ran up and down the wall to do’t;
But ere half-done—a dreadful salute!
In came the Cook, and the Scullion to boot,
And off they all scampered madly.