I don't know what to make of flies;
No need to list their deficits,
From minor to revolting bits.
And yet, I'm forced to recognise
They have the right as much as we
To live a life untamed and free.
If only they would congregate
On blossoms, not on things that smell,
Their reputation would be swell.
But still, it's difficult to hate
The errant fly who's lost his way
And hungers for the light of day.
A prisoner behind four walls,
He buzzes round the room and stalls
Before the window open wide—
Then with a dash, he flies outside.
©2018 Michael Fraley
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