Poor Fly
I saw an old guy,
Looking around outside,
Just like a spy;
Peering into the sky,
With beadle brown eyes,
That matched his tie;
That I would not buy -
But I would that pie,
That the old lady tried,
To keep from the fly;
That constantly went by,
Angering her to cry,
Which I wondered, why?
Then I saw the old guy,
Swatting the fly,
She stops and sigh;
For the poor fly dies,
And she yells, "oh my!"
As he adjusts his tie,
Then happily says, "Goodbye!"
Copyright © Carol B Tyre | Year Posted 2007
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