. The fly makes his way through the house. Its tongue, like billions before, is tainting All it touches. The fly has wings to spread His mess, and though he has innumerable Facets to his eyes he cannot see The swatter coming.
The house surrounds the fly and is sacred. As the great blue world beyond is sacred. And the fly is spreading fast, flitting here And sticking there trampling his own Shelter, spreading pollution and excrement With a rolling tongue
That spews and spits upon his own home. And though he is happy while he soils His house his eyes are two dead worlds Barren and still, born to die by the hand That flies even higher, so, the fly cannot See the swatter coming.
Buzzing, like a burn, through the innocent Air he dreams of vast minions rooting His world with legion hands. The house was A garden that led him in, he cannot Wait for his seed to fester, all's he needs Are God’s green plants
And clean water, some fresh air to conquer. This house was made for him he would have Himself believe. But when all has dried And all is soiled the fly would wish to move On, if only he could, trapped as he is In the earth and wooden house.
He could taste it all, oblivious to oblivion In God’s green wooded world— all spinning, The sands are running in the sacred home That he himself has always defiled, As he has never shown any grace; The swatters hand is His— Own spendthrift hand. .