Thursday, September 30, 2010

Struggling in the Butter

Struggling in the butter
With sticky wings aflutter
In a greasy kitchen grave
Lies this tiny thrashing knave;
Insignificant bluebottle
Yearning for a throttle
Or returning to stale air
Any place that is more fair.
But drawn in by a smell
It began its trip to hell,
Now futilely it struggles
Because a snack it tried to smuggle.
It lies alive interred
While looking just absurd;
One moment it flew with care
But now it’s unaware
That death is nigh in sight
And it may give up its fight,
But still it battles on
Greenly dreaming of the lawn.
Then death I remember
Lurks in nights before December
And any rainy day
I might take my parting way
With not a bit of choice
In vain I’ll raise my voice
And ask to stay a while
And walk one further mile.
I do however know
That one day I must go
And all my silly battle
Will be as a baby’s rattle
Or resounding gongs;
Life it won’t prolong.
So like the poor bluebottle
I await my final throttle:
Struggling in the butter
With sticky wings aflutter.

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