A fly was investigating the aromas
of my newly poured Scotch
when he was overcome by the fumes
and fell into the drink.

When I picked up my whisky
the fly was drunkenly struggling
against his predicament.  

I watched until the fly was still,
      pondered my options,
then moved to the kitchen,
poured it all down the drain.

I decided to pour another shot
and wait to be offered
those same options again.