Waiter There's a Fly
A hot July evening, and nothing had stirred,
the minutes just ticked slowly past,
too hot for much effort, and even the birds
gave up chirping as long shadows cast.
I savoured the moment and reached for my glass,
cold lager to help quench my thirst,
when I saw something black in the bubbles of gas,
close inspection, and I feared the worst.
A fly had snook down while my back had been turned
lost it's footing and fell in the beer,
and now paddled in vain for the side of the glass
but could not make it out of first gear.
Since it spoiled my enjoyment, a spoon for employment
was acquired and from my drink was scooped
the sad fly in some drops, poured it out where it stopped
with no movement, all out it was pooped.
With it's legs in the air (and I know, I've been there)
it finally righted itself, shook a wing, rubbed it's head
but not flying, instead took a gentle walk on my shed shelf.
Oblivious now to the story of how
I'd just graciously saved it's poor life,
I wondered as it slowly wobbled off home-
what on earth did it say to it's wife?
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