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".