There's a story I know
A story of a man
Who lived on hill
Lonely now
Still a ring on his hand
He picked up the paper
On an oh so perfect morning
"What a tragedy,
For his death by his own hand,
No one should be mourning."
The life of a boy
Whos age means none
Had been taken away
By his own gun
"What a foolish thing,
The thought would never cross my mind,
To let something so irrelevant leave such a sting,
Gods got a plan,
All in due time."
So he moved on
To the section he loved
The one with the questions
And the blanks in lines
Only to be interrupted
By an irrelevant fly
"What a pest,
You dare cross my eye,
Ill have you know,
You're now sure to die."
The paper he held
It the form of a field
Now a bat
With the tremendous speed it yield
"Now where did you go,
You annoyance you,
I swear I just saw you,
Not but a mere moment ago."
Once again
The fly caught his eye
And he let out a scream
"It is you i will best,
Why even try!"
He swung and he swung
With force like thunder
Twas the tiny flys blood
For which he hungered
"It seems it so,
That I have lost you again,
With a bit of whiskey,
You'll certainly show."
Into the kitchen
And into the cabinet
He pulled out a glass
And continued to slam it
On the bare counter
Where his whiskey silently stared
"Who could resist,
Such a sweet smell,
Ahh the smell of bourben,
And it's not even twelve."
Just as he took
His first big sip
He was certain he felt
Something land on his lip
"Oh I have got you now,
Goodbye you **** fly."
He took up his bat
Swung he did
His face now red
Covered with a frown
He saw no fly
Nothing dead on the ground
"Fine,
I'll just sit here,
Sit here in my chair,
And you feel free to come near."
And to his face
He brought a bottle
Liquid and golden
With nothing but anger
Growing
And growing
"Ahh,
Is that you that I hear?
You hope to die,
If youre so close to my ear."
He swung his bat
But one last time
But what he hit
Was no fly
He hit the ground
And began a ****** pool
It looks as though
A simple wasp
Played him a fool
Startled he fell
Back still against his chair
The wasp
Never even touched a hair
And once again
A lonely old man
Will look at the paper
And see the story of the fool
With death at his own hand