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.