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 155 times
Written on 2017-11-06 at 05:22

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

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

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!

I feel your pain, they are sooo irritating, well expressed.

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.

I love this one. The rhymes and the cadence. The humor in it. Everything!