I killed a fly–
poor little guy.
Just this morning he was buzzing about my head–
now he’s dead.
He was doing something very annoying–
and worse, it was while I was shaving.
My feelings for him weren’t exactly cloying–
after a while I was almost raving.
His crime was that thing flies do
when they think a mirror’s a window clear.
I’m sure if a fly did it to you,
you wouldn’t be calling him “Dear.”
Each time he bounced off the surface
he made a little buzzing noise.
I could have written it to him in cursive,
but after a while I lost my poise.
“Listen,” I said with a manner abrupt,
that took him aback a bit,
“your head-banging jag I’m loath to interrupt,
but I have to, since you won’t quit.”
He gave me the eye—actually two–
with 800 facets apiece,
there’s sixteen hundred surfaces looking at you
when to a fly you say your piece.
“That’s not the way out, I want you to know,
if you are looking for the exit.
So rather than assuming it’s how you should go
perhaps you first should check it.”
He looked at me with those big baby greens,
then into the mirror, then again at me:
“So that fly right there–the one that I’m seein’–
that good-lookin’ guy is me?”
“Yes,” I said, “and you’re so vain
you probably think this poem is about you.”
“Well, actually, it is,” he then explained,
“You told me, and I’m not going to doubt you.”
So I shut the door, and left him alone,
the self-regarding little twit,
and later that night when I came home
he wasn’t moving—not a bit.
When your span of life is less than two days
For most of it you’re an adolescent.
So don’t get enthralled by the Narcissus craze
‘cause your existence is quite evanescent.
Moral: Life is short—don’t waste it looking in a mirror.