Seven flies I’ve killed this dawn
The eighth I haven’t got
Three above the candle, hot
In clap of hands I caught
Then one upon the window screen
Squashed beneath my palm
At last I found the swatter and
Struck three by bone of dog
But still the eighth remains a threat
To my sleeping son
But ** Lands upon my page
And in death mars the paper red
Only then’s revealed a ninth
Whose buzz revives the fight
Now dead, a tenth flies by my head
As I write this in my bed
Will there ever be an end?
(I thereafter learned to **** them at night
As they sleep with a flashlight
To find morning respite)
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 9:26 PM UTC
Seven flies I’ve killed this dawn
The eighth I haven’t got
Three above the candle, hot
In clap of hands I caught
Then one upon the window screen
Squashed beneath my palm
At last I found the swatter and
Struck three by bone of dog
But still the eighth remains a threat
To my sleeping son
But ** Lands upon my page
And in death mars the paper red
Only then’s revealed a ninth
Whose buzz revives the fight
Now dead, a tenth flies by my head
As I write this in my bed
Will there ever be an end?
(I thereafter learned to **** them at night
As they sleep with a flashlight
To find morning respite)
