Fly

The coarse-wing’d fly

Zips furiously among my books,

And does not shrivel at my dirty looks

Or drop to the rug and die.

 

Next to the lamp,

It slam-dances in the bright light;

Perhaps it isn't energy but fright

Of a life-crushing THUMP.

 

Fresh out of Raid,

I try Lysoling him to death

And chase him till I’m almost out of breath.

No, this one's not afraid.

 

Ah, leave him be:

It's time for coffee (half past three!).

I'll drink it in the kitchen so the bug

Won't dive into my mug.

 

You would presume

He'd get tired, the son-of-a-gun!

But round he goes, having his manic fun

In what was once my room.





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 58 times
Written on 2017-11-06 at 05:22

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Very amusing. I'm with Ashe. I employ the swatter to experience the thrill of the hunt.
2017-11-08


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
If you didn't know better, you'd think they were intent on nothing else but driving you crazy!
2017-11-07


shells
I feel your pain, they are sooo irritating, well expressed.
2017-11-07


Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
I was having my own struggle with a fly today, so this made me smile. The old fashioned fly swatter is my weapon. Enjoyed the poem very much.
Ashe
2017-11-06


Bibek
I love this one. The rhymes and the cadence. The humor in it. Everything!
2017-11-06