Phlegmy grew up ignorant of his station in life, as a mite on the ass of a fat maid who often smelled of inscense from a near by catholic church; all phlegmy knew was that he was young and the whole world seemed to be out there for him to take. Talky tv shows had convinced him, at a very young age, that he would become some sort of famous rock star, like all the mite's he admired on his favorite shows.
He knew this would happen because he could just feel it was so, and all the big stars said they always felt that way.
Unfortunatly for phlegmy, his dreams died with him when he realized, quite too late, that the short life of a mite had come and gone and all he had ever done really was sit around waiting for his ship to come in. As he died, his last thought was, 'someday they will be sorry they treated a great poet like me like a fucking lice...'
Of course no one ever did, because I mean who the fuck reads poetry, let alone poetry by mites? I don't think so... I mean have you ever seen any? No. That's exactly the kind of evidence that proves this story is 100 % Fucking True, man.