Hey there, R.J. Reynolds. You're hard to escape in this small town.
So is the sound of cicadas, chirruping in a mechanical chorus more like a car alarm than an insect love song.
If the song is successful, the mated cicadas fertilize and die. Their hatched offspring bury themselves underground and emerge years later to sing their own love (death?) song.
It's rather poetic, despite the fact that cicadas are still insects, prone to mistaking human arms for sap-filled tree limbs. I imagine it's hard to differentiate between tall, swaying entities when your eyes are bigger than your brain.