Above the open jars of condiments
Flies hum and hover, filthy little things
That swoop and carom on their gauzy wings.
These clumsy, buzzing interlopers fence
With swatting hands that threaten violence
But strike in vain: for each Quixote swings
A blink too late, and flashing wedding rings
Clack on the wooden bench in impotence.
These scavengers will make the most from least,
Are not averse to perching on a tear,
Or in the whorl of an unguarded ear.
I'll stay indoors, sequestered as a priest,
And all alone enjoy my holiday feast,
Apart from flies and inlaws, and warm beer.
Flies hum and hover, filthy little things
That swoop and carom on their gauzy wings.
These clumsy, buzzing interlopers fence
With swatting hands that threaten violence
But strike in vain: for each Quixote swings
A blink too late, and flashing wedding rings
Clack on the wooden bench in impotence.
These scavengers will make the most from least,
Are not averse to perching on a tear,
Or in the whorl of an unguarded ear.
I'll stay indoors, sequestered as a priest,
And all alone enjoy my holiday feast,
Apart from flies and inlaws, and warm beer.
