The Fly
Six legs, a pair of wings,
a million eyes,
an insect malign.
See,
there it rests upon my naked knee,
its proboscis pumping,
sucking up my precious blood,
and spreading a thousand micro-organisms
that feed upon our fair and sunny isle.
How I loathe and detest your very sight.
There you are,
flying around,
hovering
landing,
tickling,
teasing.
A slap,
but craftily you fly away.
Once such a slap had found its mark,
and Blake saw
life's uselessness
without the reassuring force of worthwhile thought.
A brush and your ancestor died.
Oh, would that fate befall you too,
that you would die,
so I'll find peace...
and calm.
Note: The reference to Blake is another poem by the same name, naturally much better than mine, written by William Blake, English poet and published in 1794 in a book entitled "Songs of Experience".
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